Perseverance
by immertreu
Summary: When Alfred Pennyworth returns home after Bane's occupation of Gotham, his surrogate son is gone and his life in ruins. But Batman's friends remain - and therefore hope.
1. Chapter 1

**Perseverance**

by immertreu

August 2012 – January 2016

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 **A/N:** This story would not have been possible without two very special people: Karen Greim Mullian and IcyWaters.

I started writing this right after seeing "The Dark Knight Rises" for the first time, more than three years ago. I hit writer's block when my dear friend and beta at the time, Karen, died. IcyWaters generously picked up the mantle and has been my source of inspiration, encouragement and much needed butt kicking ever since. Thank you, my friend! I couldn't have done it without you.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Alfred Pennyworth crossed the temporary bridge to Gotham the moment it had been cleared for non-military personnel, following the huge convoys taking relief supplies into the city. Whatever Master Wayne might think, his oldest friend had never abandoned him.

Alfred had waited on the other side of the bay, always caring, always hoping, never letting the isolated city that had sunk into darkness out of his sight.

He passed heaps of rubble, pieces of buildings and furniture; clothes thrown out of windows or dragged outside by the mobs; broken-down cars, vehicles that had burned out or been blown up; filth and dirt and dust on every street. It was chaos and senseless destruction.

The news reports hadn't been able to prepare Alfred for the sight before his eyes.

He walked on with heavy feet and an even heavier heart; yet he'd had to come back. He needed to know…needed to see if it was true. Alfred swallowed but never finished his thought. He turned a corner and bumped into someone who was walking backwards, shouting orders at some policemen clearing the street of rubble. It was Jim Gordon.

Alfred quietly apologized and sidestepped the commissioner to hurry on, hopefully unrecognized, when a hand sneaked out of nowhere and grabbed him by the arm. Startled, Alfred began to twist his arm free and raised his other hand to punch whoever had grabbed him. Belatedly, he realized the hand holding on to him belonged to Jim Gordon. He stopped himself just in time before knocking out the commissioner. Then he let himself be dragged back around the corner he had just turned, into a dark alley that seemed to end nowhere, but Alfred knew better than that.

They came to stand a few yards into the narrow passage, alone and unobserved in the shadows because the light didn't reach very far in here, gazing at each other in the dimness.

Alfred cleared his throat, opting for playing the part of the elderly butler he'd inhabited for most of his life in Gotham. "Commissioner Gordon?" he asked, adding just the right amount of confusion and worry to his voice that any innocent citizen who had been dragged into a dark corner by Gotham's head of police would feel.

It didn't work.

Jim Gordon regarded Alfred with a scrutinizing gaze usually reserved for a specimen under a microscope, but the older man resisted the urge to squirm and said instead, "I'm sorry, sir, but I need to go on. I'm looking for…"

He didn't get the chance to finish his sentence because Gordon interrupted him, his face grave and sad. "You won't find him."

Alfred stood stock-still, his heart ready to break into a million tiny pieces, a thousand thoughts and more racing through his mind at the same time. _What do you mean? How can you even know whom I'm looking for? You must be wrong! How dare you assume? It cannot be true!_

He uttered none of this. Instead, Alfred tried playing ignorant one more time, not wanting to believe, not thinking the unbelievable, not saying the unspeakable. "I am very sorry, sir, but I think you're confusing me with someone else. I came back into the city to search for my master who hasn't been seen in days."

Gordon heaved a sigh, deep from his core, and looked around as if searching for eavesdroppers. When he found none, he looked at Alfred steadily and repeated, with more emphasis this time, "You won't find him. I am sorry." His voice didn't break, but Alfred could hear the weariness and despair in it. The hurt and loneliness. And finally he knew that it was true. Master Wayne would never come back.

But how could Gordon know?

Alfred refused to accept the pain, the burn in his heart and chest, the knowledge of his ultimate failure, just yet. He forced himself to stand when all he wanted to do was to run, to destroy, to weep. Was this what Master Wayne had felt all these years?

"Are you sure?" he asked instead. Gordon simply nodded.

Before Alfred could come up with another reply, the commissioner continued, anticipating his next question, "He told me. I didn't force him. He knew he wouldn't come back, and I think he wanted me to know."

Alfred held himself upright by sheer force of will. "Thank you." It was all he could say.

He needed to get away, away from this man who had been able to say goodbye to Batman when Alfred himself hadn't. The knowing gaze, the dullness in the commissioner's eyes…it was all too much.

Alfred simply turned and walked away, not looking back, not saying anything else, and Gordon let him go.

The old butler went on, paying no attention to the people crossing his path, shouting at him to get out of the way, the rubble and heaps of destruction still lining the streets. Alfred had only one goal: the Wayne estate on the outskirts of the city.

Bruce wasn't there.

Alfred searched the manor from top to bottom – and then went back up again. The young man wasn't in the batcave or anywhere on the grounds. Not hiding in the old well that had given Master Wayne the fright of his life – and a new purpose to cling to. He wasn't in the greenhouses or on the roof or waiting just outside the wall encircling the park. There were no cryptic clues, no fancy gadgets showing him the way. No messages. No hope.

This time, there were no miracles.

The last member of the Wayne family was truly gone, had given his life to save the city that had only caused him pain and suffering for more than thirty years. And still Alfred couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. He had left his master, his surrogate son, in order to protect him, to save his life – not to send him to his death all alone.

Alfred opened the gate to the Wayne family's tiny graveyard whose headstones looked out over the city, silent and strong. And there he finally broke down. He fell to his knees in front of Thomas and Martha's graves, sobbing and shaking and cursing himself.

Lucius Fox found him two hours later, hugging his knees and staring unseeing at the names of the two people who had trusted him, had entrusted him, with their most precious gift in the world: their son.

"Come now, Alfred," Lucius said, trying to drag his friend to his feet without jarring the arm he had hurt during his mad flight from the underground cavern, but Alfred was inconsolable, a dead weight in his arms.

"I left him," was all the distressed man could say. "I left him."

Lucius finally gave up and sank down onto the grass as well, resting his left hand in his lap. "You did not leave him, Alfred," he tried to reason with his eldest friend. "You made a choice you thought was right. You did it in order to save his life, but we both know that Bruce Wayne was no one you could bully into doing something he didn't want to do. His goal in life was to protect this city – God knows why – and he did it willingly, whole-heartedly, no matter the cost."

His voice was steady, assured, and calm; but when Alfred looked up in anger to admonish Lucius for his lack of grief for his former charge, he saw his own pain and guilt mirrored in the other man's eyes.

Lucius had always pretended not to know what Master Wayne was up to with his eccentric requests and hair-raising shenanigans, but more than once he had come to Alfred for confirmation or reassurance and help in managing a man who cared about everyone except himself – or so it had seemed.

He had been like a son to both of them, and the two men sat in silence for a while to share their sorrow, deep in thought.

Eventually, Lucius rose to his feet and offered Alfred a hand up. "Come on, let's get you inside and into some dry clothes."

Alfred got up as well, leaning heavily on Lucius's offered arm, but he refused to leave the graveyard just yet. He stood staring at the Waynes' gravestones, his head bent and his shoulders down. He looked much older than Lucius had ever seen his friend.

They both turned around at the sound of feet on the gravel in the driveway.

John Blake walked toward them. He still looked the same as before – young, earnest, and honest – but there was a new tension in the line of his shoulders, darkness lingering around his eyes and mouth, anger and pain in the way his feet hit the ground with every step.

It was a quiet anger Alfred had seen too often in Master Wayne, and it made him fear for this young cop who was still a stranger to him. But he knew that the detective had honored his oath and tried to protect the people of Gotham with everything he had. His picture had been all over the news, as the man who tried to cross the bridge leading out of Gotham with an entourage of children and citizens behind him – and almost got blown up for his courage and sense of duty.

Pulling himself together, Alfred stood up straighter and let go of Lucius's arm. But he could see that he hadn't fooled Detective Blake who observed him with knowing eyes that told much more about the young policeman's early life than he wanted anyone to know. Not commenting on it, Alfred simply acknowledged the new arrival. "Detective Blake."

Blake nodded in greeting – it was more like a salute than anything else – and looked at the two men before him in turn. He didn't offer any explanation for his unexpected visit, but eventually, he seemed to come to a decision. He turned toward Alfred and faced the elderly butler full-on. "I am sorry, Mr. Pennyworth. I couldn't save him."

Alfred stared at Blake in astonishment. "You? Save him?" He almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous idea of a simple cop saving Batman. Then he saw the pained look on the young man's face, the guilt lurking behind his eyes, and he suddenly understood.

"Oh, no, you don't!" he snarled, surprising even himself. Blake took an involuntary step backwards, looking to Lucius for help who stepped closer to Alfred in turn but refrained from taking his arm again.

Alfred took a deep breath and continued more calmly, "Don't you dare take the blame for his fall! You only tried to help him – and this city – by asking for his help." He didn't need to specify the "him." It was obvious to the butler that Blake had known all along; how was a whole other matter. "It was his choice; and although I tried to stop him from going out there again, I think I always knew the outcome of all this. So if you really want to put the blame where it belongs, you lay it on me." Pain and misery constricted his chest, and Alfred had to pause for breath. Blake started to shake his head, but Alfred interrupted him. "I failed to protect him. I even helped him when he came to me with his crazy idea all those years ago. I was so glad to see him alive back then that I would have gone along with almost anything. I agreed to it although I knew better. Now he is dead, and I am still alive."

And with one long last glance toward the Waynes' headstones, Alfred marched off toward the house, leaving in his wake two shocked figures who didn't know what to do. They looked after the hunched-over man slowly limping toward Wayne Manor.

Lucius started to follow, but Blake held up a hand in warning. "You better let him go."

They gazed at each other until Lucius finally nodded. "You're right," he conceded, regarding Blake with new respect in his eyes.

They had gotten to know each other well enough over the past few months, working together to undermine Bane's grip on the city and trying to hold the resistance together, so no more words were necessary between them. They both knew that sometimes there was just nothing you could do to ease the pain.

Each of them would have to find his own ways of dealing with it.

Lucius could see that Blake hadn't had time to come to terms with what had happened. Not just the events of two days ago, but the past few months as well. Hell, even he had trouble accepting that most of Gotham was lying in ruins once more and that Batman – Bruce Wayne – was dead.

He was torn between grief and the wish for a miracle. Bruce had been known for doing the undoable – the man had been jumping off rooftops and beating the criminals of Gotham to a pulp every night for years – but Lucius knew he should stop hoping and concentrate on helping to rebuild this city.

Batman was gone. Many other good men and women had died saving their city. The survivors still had work to do. And Lucius could really use Blake's help.

Resolutely turning away from the gravestones, Lucius started walking toward the gate, motioning for Blake to follow him. "Come on. It's not over yet."

He didn't know if he meant their situation in general or the tiny slumped figure that had reached the entrance to the manor and was fiddling with the key in his pocket right now, but it didn't matter. Blake joined him willingly enough, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the staircase leading up to the Wayne dynasty's former home.

They took a few steps in silence. When Lucius observed Alfred entering the house and closing the huge door behind him, he turned to Blake. "So you knew."

It wasn't a question but a statement. Blake just nodded.

"Did you tell anyone?" Lucius added.

The young cop shook his head vehemently. "Of course not!"

"Good. We'll need to come up with an explanation for Mr. Wayne's death as well as a body we can bury."

The policeman looked stricken at the idea. He stopped at the top of the stairs, and Lucius sighed. With everything the young man had seen and done over the past months, you would have thought that he'd have lost his wide-eyed innocence and idealism along the way. Obviously, something of the former rookie who still believed in doing right from wrong continued to exist in him. Question was: for how long?

Lucius hated himself at that moment, but Alfred seemed in no condition to make these decisions, and they needed to plan ahead before anyone could notice that something was amiss, that the story they were about to tell the world didn't fit.

"Blake!"

The younger man visibly shook himself at Lucius's address. "Yes, Mr. Fox?"

"You're still a cop, are you not?"

Blake blinked and shrugged. "Technically, yes. I'm not carrying my badge or my service weapon anymore because I lost it, but on paper I'm still a member of the force." He continued with an edge to his voice, "However, I am going to resign as soon as the worst is over. I'll help the commissioner to clean up this mess, bring back some order and help where I can, but I'm done with all this official police business."

Ignoring the curious look coming from Wayne Enterprises's former CEO, he added, "We're going to need the commissioner's help."

"Why?" Lucius replied. "Surely you have enough authority as a detective to help us out."

Blake shook his head. "Sorry, I can't. And I won't. Don't you think we need to tell Commissioner Gordon? He has a right to know. He should be there."

"Be where?" came the commissioner's voice from behind and slightly below them. Both men jumped guiltily and turned around.

Jim Gordon stood at the base of the grand staircase, still wearing the same clothes he had in the news reports for the past two days. In fact, none of them had changed in the past couple of days, but no one cared about such unimportant things anymore.

The commissioner raised an eyebrow at their silent greeting and took the stairs toward them with a few long strides that belied the weariness in his slightly slumped bearing and the tired lines around his eyes.

He stopped in front of them and fixed Blake with a stern glance over the rim of his glasses. "I thought I told you to get to the MCU and see how many men had reported back, Detective."

"I did that, sir," Blake replied defensively. "I was on my way back to you when, uh…I just needed to…" His voice faltered, and he averted his gaze.

Gordon snorted and let him off the hook. "It's okay, son," he said gently. "I've been here myself several times over the past two days. He's not coming back. We all know that." He cast a meaningful eye at Lucius who looked at the commissioner in surprise.

Blake's head snapped up when his brain registered what Gordon had just said. "So you knew," he accused his boss. "I thought you said you never wanted to know. You told me to let it rest!" The anger was back in his posture.

Gordon took off his dirty glasses and started cleaning them on his even dirtier sleeve, taking the time to formulate his reply. When he finally spoke, there was a storm of emotions flickering across his face and a bone-deep weariness to his voice. "Yes, I did, but I also told you the truth. When you asked me if I didn't want to know, I answered honestly. I did not want to learn his true identity. It didn't matter to me. I knew he was my friend, my ally, that was enough."

He paused, and Lucius asked kindly, "What made you change your mind?"

The commissioner looked at him and replied frankly, "He strapped himself into his futuristic flying _thing_ to take the bomb away. He looked at me in goodbye, and it was clear that he knew he was going to his death. So I asked him – and he told me."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Gordon confirmed. "He didn't tell me his name out loud, but his answer was easy enough for me to understand. And then he took off."

"Damn the man!" Lucius turned away, and the two cops exchanged worried looks behind his back.

"What do you mean?" Blake dared to ask.

Lucius sighed and turned around again to face them, his complexion gray despite his darker skin. "I told him to fix the autopilot months ago. I didn't have the time or the resources, and I thought it would be a nice challenge for him, to occupy his mind when his body was failing him."

Gordon looked at him with sudden understanding, as if a piece of a puzzle had finally fallen into place, although the sadness never left his eyes. "You were his supplier, his…inventor, weren't you?"

Lucius nodded grimly. "Yes, I was. I ran the R&D department of Wayne Enterprises when Mr. Wayne first came back to Gotham. One day, he strolls down into my lab and asks me if he can have a look around. The next I know, I am building this and that for him, giving him an antidote against the toxin that claimed the Narrows, allowing him to fly."

He abruptly cut himself off. "We shouldn't be talking about this out here. And since we now all _know,_ " – he stressed the last word for emphasis – "we should go inside and try to get warm at least. It's freezing, don't you think?"

With that, he turned around and banged on the huge double door in the hopes of getting Alfred to let them in. Lucius knew from his previous tries that the doorbell hadn't worked for a couple of days at least. It was also getting dark, but no lights were on anywhere in the huge manor looming over them, and the streetlights leading down the driveway stayed unlit as well.

Lucius huffed in annoyance. As soon as everything was more or less back to normal, he would see to it that Mr. Wayne's money was returned to his company. He didn't want anyone to remember Bruce Wayne, last of the Wayne dynasty that had been good to Gotham for more than a century, as the man who gambled with his family's fortune and lost it all. Lucius could prove that it had been a fraud – he just needed some time and a good computer to do so.

The screeching of one of the beautifully carved oak doors opening shook him from his musings.

Alfred stood in the doorway of Wayne Manor, regarding the three dark-clad figures patiently waiting in Gotham's winter cold, much more composed than he'd been just a few minutes ago. Lucius was glad to see his friend slightly recovered. They had a lot of planning to do. And now with all of Batman's allies assembled here, they needed to get to work. Fast.

The old butler's gaze came to rest on Gordon. "Commissioner," he simply said, accepting the latest arrival in their circle of conspirators. He turned without another word and led them down into the basement kitchen. And there, by candlelight and the flickering illumination coming from the ancient fireplace, they outlined their battle plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

They took their seats around the huge wooden table that dominated the cozy room: Lucius and Blake on one of the longer sides, Gordon opposite them, with his back to the crackling fire. Alfred busied himself with making coffee in the open fireplace, moving slowly and carefully, avoiding their worried glances with his back resolutely turned to them.

Gordon spoke up first, as if reciting from memory. It was clear he'd spent the past two days thinking about this. "Bruce Wayne got killed during the last mad days of the fight against Bane and his cronies. One of the madman's mercenaries decided to pay this last of the undisturbed grand estates in Gotham a visit, looking for hidden weapons and members of the resistance, and happened upon the crippled, miserable hermit still living there."

They all looked at him in surprise. Even Alfred turned around, the hot coffee pot he'd just pulled from the fire in hand, and slowly shook his head. "You can't do that," he objected.

"Why not?" Lucius interjected, clearly impressed by the simplicity and shrewdness of Gordon's plan.

"Because it's wrong!" the old butler replied hotly. Some color returned to his deathly pale face. "After his name was ruined, everything taken from him and the man himself made an outcast, you also want him to become a coward in the public eye? One of the many wealthy Gothamites who hunkered down somewhere in a deep hole and hoped to get away with it?"

Gordon was about to defend himself, but Lucius beat him to it. "Alfred," he said matter-of-factly. "Think!" After a short pause he added, "What would Bruce Wayne have wanted us to do?"

Alfred put the coffee pot on the table and sat down heavily next to Gordon. He hid his head in his hands, and Blake was worried the older man was about to cry. But when he looked up, his old and pale blue eyes were clear. "It's his legacy we're talking about here." There was still defiance in his tone.

Lucius didn't budge. "We know that."

"Yet you want to destroy it." Alfred insisted.

"No." It was Gordon's voice that cut their battle short. "But we have to in order to save Batman's."

It was the first time that day that any of them had mentioned Batman's name, and it shocked them into silence.

Gordon took the opportunity to make his point. "It's a simple enough story that will raise no suspicion. Everyone knows that Bruce Wayne has been ruined, left with an empty house and no money to spare. No one who is still alive has seen him in all the months of Bane's occupation of Gotham. No one knows what Bruce was really capable of so we can't make him out to be a hero, but we need to uphold Batman's name. Gotham needs its protector, now more than ever. We can't risk everything Bruce stood for only because we want to. You of all people, Mr. Pennyworth, know that."

Alfred sagged in his seat, defeated.

Lucius nodded his agreement, and Blake could only consent to it as well. He felt dwarfed by this selected circle. If these three men who had known Bruce Wayne for decades and fought alongside Batman for years thought it for the best, then who was he, a simple cop, to disagree? He had only seen glimpses of the man and the symbol he'd become in the few short moments he'd spent with Wayne and during the encounter with Batman the night before Gotham's unsung hero went to his death.

It still didn't sit right with him, but Blake kept his mouth shut for now. He needed to know more before he could voice an opinion. He understood their reasoning, but everything still felt so wrong that it made his gut churn.

The commissioner must have seen something in his face. When they left the house half an hour later to get back into the city, back to their arduous work of trying to rally the people of Gotham together to clean up their home and help those in need, Gordon asked, "What's bugging you?"

Blake climbed into the passenger seat of the commissioner's car, leaving the bike on which he'd arrived leaning against the wall of Wayne Manor. He didn't reply as he shut the door.

Gordon sighed and got in as well. He didn't start the engine right away. He merely glared at Blake in the dim interior of the car. Night had fallen.

"Come on, son, talk to me."

Blake stayed silent for a while. When Gordon didn't make any move to start the car, just kept staring at him with that gaze he must have practiced as the father of two, Blake caved. "This is easy for you, isn't it?"

Gordon looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

The younger cop scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration and turned to face the commissioner, anger visible in his jerky movements. "Lying like this. Hiding the truth. Making up stories so the people of Gotham will never know what really happened. It's easier than going out there and telling the city that you made a mistake, isn't it?"

Gordon interrupted him with an uncharacteristic shout of anger. "No! God no, it's not easier!" he yelled, waving his hands around frantically.

Blake flinched in the tiny space of the commissioner's car. He'd only seen his boss this riled up once before, when the truth about Dent's death first came out. He'd rounded on Blake in order to defend his actions of the past, just as he was doing now. Back then, Blake had been so disappointed and confused to have his suspicions confirmed that he hadn't asked for any details about that fateful day. But he felt he needed to know them now.

Taking a deep breath, he asked, "What happened the night Dent died? Why did you lie for Batman? Why did he take the blame instead of telling everyone that Dent had gone mad?"

Gordon looked at him levelly. "You know why. Sometimes the truth just isn't good enough. Sometimes you have to keep a secret so terrible that it can destroy you because it's the lesser of two evils."

"But it's wrong!" he cried, echoing Alfred's sentiment from earlier.

The commissioner gripped the steering wheel with a white-knuckled hand and turned the key in the ignition with the other. He spoke only when they'd left the Wayne estate behind and were on their way toward the city. "Yes, it is wrong," he admitted hoarsely. "But so is dressing up as a bat and rounding up criminals. So is helping a vigilante and working with him on a regular basis, disregarding every oath you took when you became a police officer. Don't you see it, Blake? Sometimes to do the right thing, you need to make the wrong choices, the ones no one understands because there is no other way."

Blake still didn't get it. "But you could've told the truth. It was no one's fault that Dent went mad and tried to kill your son. Why ruin a good man's reputation in order to protect some nutcase?"

Gordon suddenly swerved and brought the car to a screeching halt by the side of the road. Startled, Blake put out his hands so as not to smash headfirst into the front window.

"Because," Gordon turned to him, enunciating every word very carefully, "that nutcase was Gotham's only hope of ever pulling itself together. If word had gotten out that Harvey Dent had gone mad, killed several people, and kidnapped and tried to kill my whole family, then the city would never have recovered from the blow. If the Joker were able to pull down Gotham's White Knight and turn him into a criminal, then what would happen to the ordinary citizens, their families, their friends? We couldn't risk open panic. You can despise me and my filthy hands, Detective" – Blake jerked at the way his words from a few months ago were thrown back into his face – "but I had to make a choice that night. Or rather, the choice was made _for_ me. It was Batman's idea to stick out his neck, to give the city he had sworn to protect a fighting chance."

Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed a tired hand across his brow. "You saw Bruce Wayne before he died. Being Batman almost destroyed him in body and spirit, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make – and I accepted it because I didn't know what else to do. I'm not proud of that. I had to lie to millions of good people who deserved better. I had to bend the truth and renounce my only ally over and over again because he'd asked me to. And if I were to honor our agreement, the life he laid on the line for me, then I couldn't tell the truth. Not yet. Not until the time was right. And now it's too late."

Blake was shocked to see a single tear run down the commissioner's face. His eyes, unguarded and naked without his glasses, implored the younger man to understand. And finally, gradually, Blake did. He saw what it had cost the commissioner, whom he'd admired for most of his adult life. He remembered the broken man he had encountered when he requested to meet Bruce Wayne not even half a year ago. The old, grief-stricken butler defending his employer's honor although the man was dead. Lucius Fox, trying to do the right thing although it made his heart ache with regret. They all knew, but they did it anyway because it simply had to be done for the greater good, the cause they served.

Shamefaced, he hung his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't understand."

Gordon rubbed a hand across his eyes again and put his glasses back onto his nose. "I know, son. I know. You weren't there, and I'm glad for it. Sometimes there is no right and wrong. Sometimes…there is only gray."

They spent the rest of the drive back into Gotham in silence.

Back at the manor, two men sat in crushing stillness as well. Alfred had refused to leave the house, so Lucius decided to stay with him.

There was a deep sadness in Lucius's heart, but he knew it was nothing compared to the paralyzing grief Bruce Wayne's former guardian and mentor felt. It was inconceivable that the heir of the Wayne dynasty was gone; yet here they were, remembering what kind of man he'd really been, because of his ultimate sacrifice.

Lucius knew Alfred blamed himself for everything and that there was nothing any man could do or say to take this burden from him. His friend had done everything in his power to protect a boy he loved, but it seemed the boy's path had been leading into darkness ever since his parents died. Had it been fate? Did something as predestination even exist? Lucius didn't know.

He puttered around the ancient-looking kitchen that was built exactly as the original room had been before it was destroyed by Ra's al Ghul. Lucius knew the significance it held for Alfred, so he didn't even try to remove the old man from his place by the fire. He found some canned goods and a pot he could put onto the fire to warm their evening meal; and although neither of them was hungry, they each ate a few bites just to get a little warmer.

After their meal, Alfred turned to stare into the flames. Since it was clear that his old friend wouldn't say any more tonight, Lucius ventured upstairs to check and reactivate the manor's security system he himself had installed after the reconstruction of the Wayne family's house. He also got some blankets on his way back and placed them on a stool next to the grieving butler's feet. Lucius struggled a bit with the heavy load because his left arm simply wouldn't support the weight. _Probably sprained_ , he thought. There would be time to see a doctor later.

Then he finally went to one of the smaller guestrooms he'd occupied frequently many years before – well, the original ones at least – and curled up under one of the thick comforters he found in the closet. The single candle on his bedside table cast the room into an eerie, shadowy light; yet Lucius fell into an exhausted sleep almost the moment his head hit the comfortable pillow.

Alfred sat unmoving for the better part of an hour. When his joints felt as if they couldn't get any stiffer and the absence of sound coming from upstairs confirmed that Lucius had really fallen asleep, he slowly rose from his chair. He grabbed a candle from the table and made his way toward the study on the upper floor – the one Master Bruce had "used" frequently for some time.

He stepped up to the black piano gleaming in the candlelight and hit a few of the keys, eliciting a discordant harmony from the beautiful instrument. The secret door behind the bookshelf opened, and Alfred slipped through, allowing the entrance to the batcave to close behind him.

When the old butler exited the elevator and entered the batcave as he'd done so many times before, he saw not the new lair Batman had built for himself but the old cave, the one with the workbenches in the back, the antique cabinet holding the batsuit near the escalator, the place where the tumbler used to rest before it got blown up in the fight with the Joker all those years ago.

Alfred could almost see Bruce Wayne as he had appeared after his return to Gotham, sitting at one of the tables and holding up one of the bat-shaped throwing stars he'd carved. But then the old man took a step, and the automated walkway rose from the depths of the river flowing through the ancient cavern. The illusion shattered as quickly as it had appeared.

Shaken by his vision, Alfred slowly walked over to the huge computer bank Bruce had installed for Batman's use and sat down in front of the wall of screens – just as Master Wayne had done on the fateful day Alfred left him forever.

Guilt started nagging at him again, but the butler pushed those thoughts away and started with the task at hand. He booted the computer that was more powerful than anything the GCPD and possibly even the US military had ever seen. He typed in a string of commands known only to two people in the world. The first severed the basic connection between the mainframe and the landline it had used for accumulating data and hacking into all sorts of highly classified files and systems all over the world. The second order that Alfred typed with tremulous hands sealed every box and storage compartment that was hidden underwater and resting in the stone floor of the cave right now. The third and last command finally sent the computer to sleep – and no one but Alfred or Batman would ever be able to wake it from its slumber.

Alfred knew he was probably overly cautious, but Master Bruce had entrusted him with this task in case Batman ever didn't make it home. Now his young master was dead, and the old butler still felt obliged to carry out this important order, so that in the unlikely case anyone ever stumbled across this hidden den, no one would be able to use its tools for evil.

His mission accomplished, Alfred allowed himself a moment of quiet. He leaned against the backrest of the high-backed chair, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. The bats roosting high above him among the stalactites were his only companions; and although he'd never thought he'd find their rustling and flapping as peaceful as he did now, the familiar noises which Master Wayne had often sought gave him so much comfort and peace of mind that he finally fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Alfred emerged from the batcave very early on the following morning, feeling cold and clammy from the night he'd spent in the cool and damp cavern, but he paid it no heed. He had one final task to complete. After the hidden door had snapped shut behind him, he pressed the secret switch that locked it in place and severed the connection between the piano and the entrance to the cave. The system could be reactivated if you knew its secrets; but since Alfred didn't know yet what would become of Wayne Manor, he decided to take no risks.

Only when this final security measure was in place did Alfred allow himself to stop and think. He sat at the piano that resembled the one Mrs. Wayne had often played and let his mind drift. For the first time in years, Alfred Pennyworth had nothing left to do. He remembered the last time Master Bruce had been "dead" – but back then his hope had burned strong. He had just known that his charge wasn't dead. Life hadn't been easy on the young Wayne heir, but he'd never given up the will to live, experience new things, learn and discover.

This time his disappearance was different. Final.

Bruce had once said the empty house reminded him of a mausoleum, and Alfred had refused to acknowledge the analogy. But maybe Master Wayne hadn't been so wrong after all?

The house was very quiet, as if in mourning for its fallen owner. In fact, it almost felt the way it had after the Waynes' murder all those decades ago. For Alfred, there had still been life in the house then because of a very special young boy who needed looking after and who deserved to be a happy child again. But his happiness had never come.

The youth had grown into an angry man, brooding and dark. There had been humor and kindness underneath his fierce exterior and his many masks, but he seldom allowed himself the luxury of being just Bruce.

In the old days, Alfred had had a purpose in life, a task at hand that asked for more than any other butler would have been able to fulfill. But those times were over. He was finally free of his burden – and he felt like the loneliest person on Earth because it hadn't been a shackle at all. It had been his calling.

Alfred finally got up from his stool and walked aimlessly around the house, looking at the few family items that remained, touching the few pieces of the past that had survived the fire.

This was not how he'd wanted to grow old: to survive every member of a family he'd loved as his own and who had loved him back, even if their youngest member had unlearned how to express these feelings – and who had probably hated him in the end.

Alfred didn't know what to do with himself. What was the reason for his being alive? All his life he'd served. First the British government, then the Wayne family and their eccentric heir. What was left for him now?

A loud bang on the great doors downstairs drew Alfred back from the dark place to which his mind had wandered. A glance at his watch revealed that it wasn't yet six o'clock. Lucius was asleep in one of the guestrooms. Who would come to call at this hour?

For a second, hope surged up inside the old man. A heartbeat later, he scolded himself for his foolishness and went to answer the door. Master Wayne would never come home again.

Commissioner Gordon stood on the threshold, carrying two large paper cups of hot coffee in a cardboard tray in one hand and a bag that smelled of freshly baked goods in the other. He'd shaved and changed, but he didn't look as if he'd gotten much sleep last night. Alfred suspected his own appearance wasn't much different, but he was too weary to care.

"Commissioner?" Alfred asked.

The unexpected visitor wasn't exactly hopping from foot to foot, but his unease showed clearly in the way he flexed his shoulders and looked around to make sure the two men were unobserved.

"I thought you could use something hot," the other man said by way of greeting and held out his burdens for Alfred to take.

The old butler took the proffered gifts and stepped aside to let the commissioner in, but Gordon shook his head. "Thanks, but I need to get to work. I just wanted to make sure…"

He hesitated, and Alfred finished the sentence for him. "…we were okay?"

Gordon shrugged apologetically. "Something like that." He paused, collecting his thoughts. His next sentences came out in a rush and left him out of breath. "I realize I'm probably not the most popular person around here at the moment, but I wanted to tell you how much respect I have for you and what you've done for Mr. Wayne. I'm sorry it has to be like this."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked briskly back to his car parked at the bottom of the grand staircase.

He had almost reached the unmarked sedan when Alfred found his voice again.

"You are always welcome here, Commissioner." The old butler's voice was grave, but some life had returned to his previously troubled eyes, and he stood as straight as possible when holding two cups of coffee and a paper bag in his hands. "You were his friend," he added, nodding once in affirmation and closing the door.

 _Friend…_ Jim Gordon pondered the word on his drive into town. Had he really been Batman's friend? Maybe even Bruce Wayne's?

He simply didn't know. The unsettling truth had changed everything Jim had thought he'd ever believed about the vigilante and their unique relationship.

They had been allies for sure; Jim had called Batman his friend more than once when defending his actions to Blake, but now he felt as if he'd never deserved the title. He hadn't been there for the other man when he needed him the most. Then again, how could he have been without knowing the face behind the mask?

The commissioner had agonized for hours over the things he'd said at their meeting last night. After checking in with the men at the MCU and dropping Blake off at the younger man's miraculously untouched apartment, Jim had spent the dark hours wide awake in his familiar armchair. Luckily, the frantic mob hadn't destroyed it during their "liberation" of the city, but the rest of his rooms were still a mess. He'd been too tired to even attempt to clean up, so he'd just sat there, thinking and remembering everything he'd said and done to protect the image of Batman.

Jim knew he'd acted on the Dark Knight's behalf and that his choices had been the right ones – but had they been the right ones for Bruce Wayne, too?

Ever since learning his ally's true identity, Jim had avoided thinking too much about what the revelation meant. He'd focused on puzzling out how to explain the billionaire's death and how to convince his co-conspirators to go along with his suggestions, but otherwise he'd shied away from the topic. He'd had more pressing things on his mind anyway – like trying to bring back peace and order to a city that had lived in darkness and chaos for almost five months; but last night everything had come rushing back. And now he couldn't shake the feeling of failure that had clung to him ever since.

A garbage truck blocked the road in front of Jim's car, but he didn't mind the wait. It had been too long since any kind of waste collection had been made in the city; and although everyone had been rallying together to clear the streets of rubbish, the problem of the overflowing trash cans hadn't been solved – until now.

Things were slowly getting back to normal. People were coming out of their hiding places and returning home. Still, Jim knew the city was months, probably even years away from any kind of a life resembling the one before the mercenaries' occupation of Gotham. There had been too much death and tragedy, too many losses, too much devastation for everyone in the city to live as if nothing had happened.

There were also still dozens of criminals running loose. The ones who hadn't been able to leave yet would be picked up by his men sooner or later – the commissioner was sure of that.

Many good men and women had died during the occupation and in the final battle for Gotham, but there were already requests coming in from young people – even from outside the city limits – to join the force. Many had been inspired by the myriad of stories they'd heard. Others wanted to follow in the footsteps of their friends and family who had died for Gotham's freedom.

As a matter of fact, Jim was on his way to meet a group of Gotham's volunteers who had offered to search the city block by block, looking for survivors and injured in the rubble; children, many of them orphans who must be scared to death; elderly people who had survived this cold and relentless winter of Gotham.

For now, Jim would take every bit of help he could get, at least on a provisionary basis. After that, everyone would be screened and sent to the police academy just like every other officer who had ever carried a gun in his city.

People from outside Gotham's boundaries would have to wait for another day or two because leaving the island was easier than getting on it at the moment. Traffic into the former war zone was pretty heavily screened, and outsiders who didn't know their way around the city would only be a hindrance, not a help.

Thousands of phone calls, emails, and letters had reached the office that had been set up as a liaison between the former beleaguered city and the outside world. People were looking for missing fathers and mothers, children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. It was unimaginable how many people had been lost and affected by the recent madness.

It was even worse than the destruction the Joker had reaped eight years ago because his actions had been small in comparison – single events rather than mass destruction on a grand scale. Even blowing up Gotham General hadn't caused as many deaths as feared because the evacuation had been completed before the hospital was destroyed – the same one Jim had been in after his near-fatal experience in Gotham's sewer system. The same one Bruce Wayne's money had helped rebuild after the Joker incident…

Jim's train of thought came to a sudden stop when the driver in the ambulance behind him honked his horn. The street was clear, the garbage truck had passed into a side alley, so the commissioner shook himself and turned the key in the ignition.

Fuel was still rare in the city, so it was mostly limited to police cars, doctors, ambulances, and other emergency vehicles. The streets remained difficult to navigate because of all the rubble that lined the sidewalks and corners and had tumbled into the roadway, and Jim was glad of the distraction. Getting to the MCU would need his undivided attention. _No more heavy thinking while on the road_ , he mentally scolded himself, and drove on.

Detective Blake was already waiting for him when the commissioner approached his recently cleared parking spot behind the MCU. The young cop had offered to organize and lead the search party, and Jim had given him the desired task.

He knew Blake was shaken from everything that had happened, but there was also a deeper mistrust and anger apparent in the young man's behavior. The commissioner had decided to cut him some slack – for now. Jim had gotten to know him pretty well ever since they'd been forced to go underground, and he could tell that something was definitely eating at the younger man, putting him off balance. Sure, almost getting blown up – by his own peers, no less – would make every man question his view of the world, but Jim could feel that it wasn't just his near-death experience that had changed the younger cop so much. The hothead, as Foley had liked to call Blake, was unnaturally calm and quiet these days.

For the umpteenth time, Jim asked himself how well Blake and Wayne had known each other, and he made a mental note to ask his subordinate about it as soon as he got the chance. Last night's argument was vivid in his memory, but Jim knew there were some things they really needed to talk about – preferably before any kind of official investigation into Jim Gordon's lie regarding Dent and Batman began. But first, they had a job to do.

"Commissioner."

"Detective." Jim answered the simple greeting in kind and started walking up the stairs, with Blake falling in beside him. "So, how many of our volunteers have turned up?" he asked.

Blake's reply stopped him dead in his tracks. "Two hundred. And that's only the first group."

"Two hundred?" Jim could hardly believe his ears, but then he roused himself and began walking again. "I thought there were about twenty who contacted you the other day and offered to help."

"Yes, sir, but they brought some friends who asked some of their friends in turn…You know how it works."

Jim fought the urge to snort in derision. Once upon a time, he'd been as trustful and believing in people like his young colleague apparently still was, but the commissioner could hardly remember those days. Loneliness and too many disappointments by his fellow men had shaken his belief.

The two cops entered the half-destroyed MCU and turned down one of the corridors that led into an undamaged part of the building. The upper floors were a real mess, but the building's integrity seemed secure enough for now, so Jim had decided to make it the police force's official headquarters. He didn't care if the other policemen whispered about sentimentality behind his back – the MCU building was where Jim and his men were supposed to be.

A light was on in the room at the end of the tunnel-like hallway, and subdued voices could be heard. Jim turned to Blake with a questioning rise of an eyebrow, but the younger cop merely shrugged and waved the commissioner on. "After you, sir."

This time, Jim did snort although the comment hadn't been that funny. Setting his features into a serious but hopefully confident expression, Jim entered the room where Blake's volunteers waited. He should have expected the wall of people that greeted him with sudden silence when he appeared – but even Blake's announcement hadn't been enough to convince Jim of the sheer number of people that crowded the room which had once been the MCU's cafeteria. Everyone had turned to look at the commissioner, but his gaze fell on too many small faces looking up at him from the floor. There were children here!

"Blake!" Jim barked and turned around to leave the room, only to find himself almost nose to nose with his detective.

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't you _sir_ me, Blake! What are _they_ doing here?" He hitched a thumb back at the youngsters who had begun to whisper among themselves as soon as the commissioner's back was turned.

The younger cop didn't even try to play innocent but stood his ground. "They want to help," he said, some of the old fire Jim had missed returning to his eyes. "They are good kids. I know most of them. The boys anyway."

"Be that as it may, Detective. We can't send them out there!"

"Why not?" Blake stuck out his chin in a way that reminded Jim too much of his Jimmy.

"Don't do that, son," the commissioner sighed.

The other man still wouldn't give up but delivered his final argument. "It's their city, too!"

Blake was almost shouting now, and Jim suddenly became aware of the hushed silence that descended over the room once more. Slowly, he turned back to the expectant crowd that had observed their heated exchange with expressions ranging from slightly amused (the older men and women in the back) to embarrassed (the young men and women standing in the middle of the room and lounging on chairs) to scared and disappointed (the kids in front).

Jim cleared his throat and tried to smile. "Uh...sorry about that." He cast Blake a baleful glance. This argument had definitely not gone as planned by the older man. Then he addressed the gathering of people, trying not to let any of his former anger creep into his voice.

"First, I would like to thank all of you for coming. Time is short, and I've never been good at speeches." That elicited a dry chuckle from almost everyone because the commissioner was known for his hatred of public appearances – now the whole city knew the reason, of course. Trying not to dwell on it, Jim added, "Detective Blake here will sort you into groups and give you a map of the city that is marked with the blocks you have to search. Every search party will be equipped with a walkie talkie to contact us and the emergency responders. Because there are so many of you here, the group sizes will vary between four and eight people in case you need to split up."

Slight murmurs arose, but Jim saw Blake nod in his periphery vision and continued confidently, "It's a security measure. We don't want to lose any one of you while rescuing others. Stick together, use your common sense – don't try to be heroes." _Playing the hero never ends well in this city_ , he silently added. "If all the adults would please come forward? We need to take down your names and assign you to your groups now."

The children started a noisy protest, but Jim cut them off with a stare over the rim of his glasses and an upheld hand. "Everyone under age, please stay seated. I'll talk to you in a minute."

The teenagers murmured unhappily but obliged. _Blake was right, they are good kids. Maybe they can help after all._

Jim was impressed by Blake's efficiency in creating a list with every volunteer's name, his group and the places of the city he would be searching. The young cop took the time to talk to every single one of them, thanking them for coming and offering an assuring smile or a pat on the back where it was needed by the men and women approaching him. Gone was the sullen man who had roamed the city ever since Batman's death.

It was startling and not a little unnerving to see this new side of his colleague who seemed to switch between different sets of mind and mood in a heartbeat. Living and working with Blake during the occupation had clearly not been enough to uncover this previously unobserved trait. Jim wondered what else the young man was hiding under his easy-going manner and slightly subdued demeanor that only erupted into occasional brashness and a smart mouth – one that had gotten the young man into trouble with his superiors more often than not if Foley's former animosity was anything to go by.

Other policemen took over as soon as Blake was finished with the volunteers. The officers led them outside to explain the police-issued radios, gave them a few instructions on how to conduct their searches, and sent them on their way. The room cleared faster than Jim would have thought until only about thirty youngsters remained with him and Blake. They looked up at him expectantly, and Jim cleared his throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious and very old in comparison. He waved for Blake to join him, and the young detective's fresh face and youthful appearance only enforced Jim's sudden feeling of age.

He shrugged it off and smiled at the kids, assessing their ages and mentally sorting them into groups he could use. Part of him was still reluctant to send children out into the dangerous streets of a post-war zone, but Blake was right: The youngsters really wanted to help. Jim could see it in their eager faces and their eyes that had already seen too much, in the ways they held themselves, proud and defiant, not allowing their sorrow or loneliness to seep out. The commissioner noticed, of course, and he guessed that many of the boys who now sat before him had grown up on the streets of Gotham or in the orphanage Blake had supported during the occupation – and where, Jim guessed, the detective had lived for a while, too. He would have to ask him about it, though, because Jim had never gotten the chance to access the detective's file before Bane blew up half of Gotham.

If the commissioner refused the kids now, how could he expect them to stand up and do the right thing when they were older and in the position to really help others? Growing up in Gotham was tough, especially without any kind of family. Giving these teenagers a purpose and a good example was the least he could do.

The thought forced him into action. He grabbed a chair and sat down in front of the youngsters, making eye contact with those he could see clearly from his position. Blake followed his example, and Jim noted with interested that most of the boys turned their gaze on the young detective first and not on the commissioner. That only proved what Jim already knew, that many of their young volunteers were here because they looked up to Blake and wanted to help him as he had done for them.

Jim finally spoke up. "First of all, I want you to know that I'm glad you're here. Yes, I know, I didn't sound like it only a few minutes ago." The unbelieving looks aimed in his direction weren't lost on him, and he grinned self-consciously. "I wasn't angry with you. I was worried. But Detective Blake convinced me that there was something you could do to help us, so if you still want it, I have a job for you."

A boy in the front row who seemed to be about twelve or thirteen years old asked, "All of us?" The boy was clearly disbelieving, and Jim silently chastised himself for his previous insensitivity. The recent events had taken their toll on the commissioner. Otherwise, he wouldn't have lost his temper so easily.

Blake cut in, his voice calm and confident. "Yes, Mark. All of you. And I think what Commissioner Gordon was trying to say is that he was an idiot." That got a few chuckles from the suspicious group; and although Jim knew he should be angry with his detective, he couldn't help but agree with the assessment. Blake shot him an amused look as if he knew what his boss was thinking. He shrugged in apology and continued, "Why don't you ask him what he would like you to do?"

The teenagers suddenly sat up straighter, pricking up their ears. Jim had to admire the younger man's ability to make them listen again and nodded his thanks. He said, "I can't send you out there into the blown-up parts of Gotham because it's too dangerous." Forestalling any further interruptions, he added, "I know you can take care of yourselves, but even grown men and women are having a hard time out there. What I would like to ask you to do though is this: We need to let people know that help has arrived and there are places they can go for assistance: food, clothing, clean water, medicine."

Jim saw some of the kids in front of him nod. Encouraged, he continued, "I'm sure you've heard about the office they put up where folks can ask for news about missing relatives and friends. It would be a great help if you could go from house to house, see if there are citizens still living there, and tell them what you know. Inform them of the liaison office and that the official police headquarters is back at the MCU."

The boy in the first row – Mark – raised his hand. "Commissioner?"

"Yes?" Jim smiled at him encouragingly.

Mark hesitated for a moment, then asked, "What if somebody is hurt and needs help right away?"

Blake glanced at the commissioner and after receiving his confirmative nod replied, "I think we'll send a cop with you. He can coordinate your search and call for a doctor if you find any injured who need assistance. How does that sound?"

Relief clearly written on his face, the boy nodded and settled down to listen to the rest of Jim and Blake's instructions. Now that their initial disappointment over not being allowed to search the city with the other volunteers had vanished, they quickly warmed up to the idea of going from house to house in the commissioner's name. Fifteen minutes later, the kids had been sent on their way, too – accompanied by a trooper and his radio. They would cover five blocks and then return to St. Swithin's and their respective homes for the day. There was a lot of cleaning up to do there, too.

Blake started gathering up his papers and the lists of volunteers as soon as the last of the boys had left the room. He suddenly seemed nervous and eager to be on his way. Jim could hardly blame the man. They still had a long day ahead of them – it wasn't even eight o'clock yet – but the commissioner had a hunch that that wasn't the only reason. The detective was trying to avoid being alone with his boss any longer than necessary so he wouldn't have to talk about what had just happened.

Jim knew this wasn't the time or place to inquire about the detective's past, so he merely clapped the younger man on the shoulder on his way to the door. "You're good with children," he said approvingly.

Blake glanced at him in surprise. "Thank you, sir," he said and smiled a little. "They're good kids," he repeated his comment from earlier. "They just need someone to show them the right way and give them a little shove in the right direction once in a while. Thanks for letting them help."

Jim shot him a grin over his shoulder. "Thank _you_ for talking me into it."

Blake fought hard to keep his smile in check. "Any time, Commissioner."

Jim nodded in acknowledgment and motioned for the detective to follow him to the briefing room where their colleagues were waiting to start the day. "Let's go. We have a city to run."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It had been four weeks since the war for Gotham had ended. Slowly, so very slowly, life in the city was beginning to get back to normal. Most of the roadways had been cleared of rubble and dirt. The dead, dying and sick that had been lining the streets had been picked up to be treated in one of the re-opened hospitals or to be buried in honor. Only Gotham General remained too damaged to open any time soon, and Gordon thought it only fitting that the building Gotham's Dark Knight had rebuilt should stay closed after Bruce Wayne's death. It was ironic, really, but Jim tried to find comfort in the crooked analogy anyway.

Spring had come over night. Ice and snow that had clung to the city for most of Bane's occupation had melted away. Part of Jim's mind marveled at the beautiful changes; how fast blooms had blossomed everywhere, how lawns and parks had turned green again. The other part was too busy quoting from Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" while observing the other attendees of Bruce Wayne's funeral.

Jim didn't need the book in his hands. He'd read the story so many times he could recite it almost without thinking, but today it gave him a strange sense of comfort. The familiar weight in his hands, the feeling of the often-turned pages grounded him to the here and now. Every man needed something to hold on to, especially now. For Jim, it was the novel in his hands.

Lucius Fox was cradling his broken arm in a sling – he had finally given in to his friends' admonishments and gone to see a doctor a few days after the occupation ended – sliding worried glances toward his long-time friend Alfred. The elderly butler stood with his hands folded in front of him, staring at the grave as if he couldn't believe it was actually there. And John Blake? Jim wasn't sure what to make of the younger man's expression. It was as unreadable as Batman's, which had Jim very worried. How much anger, how much disappointment and frustration was Blake hiding behind his "mask"? It was obvious that he blamed himself for Batman's death.

It was Blake who had gone to drag the Dark Knight from his self-imposed seclusion and life of misery, yes. But Jim was the one who had ended up in the hospital and convinced his former ally and friend that Batman had to come back. On the other hand, it was Alfred who had left Wayne Manor when Bruce Wayne needed him most. And Lucius…he hadn't been able to fix the autopilot which cost Batman his life. So who was really to blame? All of them? None of them?

Jim knew these thoughts were useless. Bruce Wayne had made his decision many years ago. The outcome had been inevitable from the very start because no man could go through all this and simply walk away from it. Batman had died a hero, and making this about them, his friends and allies, didn't do him justice.

They all needed to grieve, but after that, they had to go on and honor his memory.

Jim shook himself from his musings and finished his unusual eulogy, ignoring the lump in his throat that threatened to choke his voice: "…It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

Silence descended. Jim closed the book, cast one last worried look at Alfred Pennyworth who didn't seem to notice Lucius's encouraging pat on his shoulder, and followed Fox and Blake back to where they had parked their cars. Alfred's broken sobs and admonishings of guilt almost broke his heart, but he forced himself to continue walking and not look back. There was nothing any of them could do but give the old man some space and time to reconcile himself with the fact that the last of the Waynes was gone. This time, he wouldn't come back.

Lucius Fox went over to his own car and started to drive off to attend matters at Wayne Enterprises. Jim knew Lucius was about to finish his investigation into the fraud Bruce Wayne's company had suffered. He couldn't bring back the Wayne heir, but he could restore his family's name and his fortune so they could use it to help others. Alfred would definitely inherit most of Bruce's private wealth, but the firm and its relief projects could sure use the money.

Jim turned to Blake to try to convince the younger man to stay on the force, but he could already see it in the detective's eyes that nothing Jim could say or do would change his mind. The former rookie had seen too much darkness, experienced too many disappointments and lies since this whole mess had started. He had lost faith in the system, and although Jim knew how dangerous such an attitude could be, there was no way of stopping Blake from following his own path in life.

Yet Jim had to try once more because losing a good cop like Blake would hurt the department. And, Jim had to admit to himself, it would make his life more difficult as well. He hadn't realized until now how much he had relied on the younger man, not only during Bane's occupation of Gotham but also in the past few weeks. They had worked side by side, sometimes literally, to reclaim their lost city and give it back to the people. Jim would miss that. And him.

Jim took a breath. "Can I change your mind? About quitting the force?"

Blake just shook his head. "You know what you said about structures becoming shackles? You were right, and I can't take it. The injustice." He paused, regarding the huge manor looming above them. "I mean, no one's ever gonna know who saved an entire city." He sounded wistful and sad and angry all at once.

Jim knew that Blake was right, from his point of view. But he was also wrong! Jim tried to make him see that and quietly said, "They know." Answering his colleague's questioning glance, he added, "It was the Batman." And he couldn't help the small smile that followed his words because the people of Gotham knew indeed.

No one had ever seen Batman's face or known his name, but the citizens' gratitude toward their silent guardian was obvious in their hushed conversations when they thought no one was listening, the graffiti painted onto damaged houses or scratched into pieces of rubble, and the flowers laid down at the edge of the river. The Dark Knight was their savior. Their hero.

Blake stood lost in thought, so Jim jangled his car keys to get his attention. "Come on. I'll give you a ride into town."

The younger man had already dropped a hint that he would stay with Father Reilly and the kids, help them rebuild for a while, so that's where Jim took him.

He couldn't even blame the man. Returning "home" was what everybody wanted – and should be able to do – in times like this. And speaking of homes… "You grew up there, didn't you? At St. Swithin's?"

Blake was either too occupied with his own thoughts or too weary to care about his boss's inquiry. He merely nodded without answering.

"What happened?"

That snapped the younger cop out of his reverie. "Why do you want to know?" The anger was back in his voice, in his eyes. And there was pain there, too. Jim could only see it because he knew this kind of anger all too well. He had first seen it about thirty years ago in a confused and angry boy, orphaned in seconds by a robbery that claimed the lives of his parents. It scared Jim badly to see history repeat itself. He had become a cop to stop things like this from happening, not to encounter tragedy and death again and again.

He kept his eyes on the road and his voice level by a sheer force of will. "I'd just like to know you better. You know everything about me, I bet. They probably taught you at the academy how your police commissioner became the man he is today." His voice was so full of poignant sarcasm that it shocked even Jim. His broken marriage and lonely life were no one's fault but his own. It wasn't fair to let his anger about his failed relationships and disappointments in life out on an innocent bystander.

Jim reined in his bitter thoughts and continued more calmly, "You know how I came to work with Batman, I told you when we started hiding from Bane and his cronies. I'd just like to learn how you became such a good cop and a street-wise kid with moral principles rivaling the ones of Batman." _Damn, had he really said that last part out loud?_ He floundered and added lamely, "I mean…"

Blake actually snorted, suddenly cheerful again. "It's okay, Commissioner. Don't make this any more awkward than it already is."

Jim breathed a sigh of relief. "Right. Thanks. Shutting up now."

They drove on in silence.

Blake started speaking when they entered the gloomy outer district of the city. "My mom was killed in a car accident when I was very young. I don't remember her."

People were milling about, repairing, rebuilding, sometimes talking or sharing small smiles. Jim gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, observing everything around him but not interrupting Blake. He'd heard stories like this too many times over the course of his career.

"My dad was a gambler. He got shot when I was nine. He owed some mob boss money, but he couldn't pay him back. So they killed him." His voice had become flat and expressionless, but the tension he was feeling was obvious in the rigid set of his shoulders and the stiffness of his back pressed to the seat. "I bounced from foster home to foster home after that until they decided I was a lost cause. So they sent me to St. Swithin's."

Blake finally turned to look at Jim. "Father Reilly took me in. He somehow always knew how to deal with me. He didn't bother with platitudes or telling me everything would be okay – which it never would. He just did what needed to be done and expected everyone else to help him out by doing their part. Money was neither short nor plentiful. The orphanage was once funded by the Wayne Foundation. By Martha and Thomas Wayne, to be exact."

Jim cast a quick glance to his passenger but looked back to the road right away. There were just too many obstacles left in their path. "So that's where you met Bruce Wayne?"

Blake kept silent for a moment, obviously collecting his thoughts. Jim seized the lull in their conversation, signaled and squeezed his car into the parking space he'd just spotted. He killed the engine and turned to regard the younger man, patiently waiting for him to continue.

Eventually, Blake spoke up. "Yes, that's where I met him. He continued to fund the orphanage, at least for a while, and came for a visit to see what good his money had done." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I know now that he was honestly trying to help, but it didn't feel like it at the time." He paused and continued, "Anyway, I got a really good look at him that day. He didn't notice me, he was busy talking to Father Reilly and this girl that was hanging from his arm, but I could see his face clearly. He was all smiles and polite interest, but it was obvious to me that it was all a mask. A façade to hide his true feelings. There was danger lurking behind it, and anger. I don't know why, but I made the connection right away. I guess it was because he was unconsciously expressing the feelings I myself was experiencing at the time."

Gordon cocked an eyebrow, wondering how many of those dark feelings his former detective was still harboring, but kept silent.

"I didn't talk to him, and I never mentioned that day to anyone – not until six months ago when I went to confront Bruce Wayne about being Batman – but I vowed to become a better person because of it."

Blake looked away, suddenly self-conscious. "That's the only way I can explain it. I didn't sit down and think it over and over, I just went and made a better life for me and my friends, the guys from St. Swithin's and everyone who needed help. Father Reilly encouraged me to continue on my path. So I applied to the police academy a few years later. And that's how I ended up here."

Jim cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with this impromptu soul bearing, and restarted the engine. Pulling out into the traffic, he said, "He's had that effect on many of us." Then he smiled, the slight movement an unfamiliar one for the corners of his mouth. "Batman, I mean. Back in the good days, before the Joker, he inspired people to stand up for what was right and just." Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Blake nod. "We had to condemn him and his actions, of course, but the truth is he did what many people secretly wished they could do. You don't know how many young cops joined the force because of him. Women wanted to be rescued by him just once. Young boys worshipped him as their hero." The thought of his Jimmy made Jim's smile vanish as suddenly as it had appeared.

They drove on in silence, neither man knowing what to say, until Jim suddenly chuckled. "Do you know how Batman and I first met?"

Blake shook his head, curiosity replacing the grimness in his expression. "No, I don't. What happened?"

Jim smirked, the fond memory chasing away his melancholy. "You see, I was working late – as usual. I was alone in my office, poring over some report or other, when I felt a fresh breeze coming from the window. I tried to turn around but felt something cold and metallic pressed against my head, so I stopped and listened to some nutcase breathing down my neck, saying he wanted me to work with him. Then he jumped out the window and vanished. I tried to arrest him, but it was no use, of course." Blake grinned in understanding, and Jim finished his story: "Back then he didn't have his suit and everything; he was just a man wearing a mask and black clothes to hide in the shadows. I didn't know it at first, but he didn't have a gun – he'd threatened me with my stapler…"

Blake burst out laughing.

They spent the rest of the drive talking about their various impressions of Batman, Jim adding funny bits here and there to lighten the mood. When they reached the orphanage and saw Father Reilly already waiting for Blake, Jim finally felt as if they had a better understanding of each other and their relationship with Gotham's secret guardian. He just hoped it would be enough to allow Blake to cope with recent events.

Jim stopped Blake before the younger man could open the passenger door. "Blake?"

"Yes, Commissioner?"

Jim suppressed a sigh. So they were back to formalities? Shaking it off, he said, "Just…take care, okay?"

Blake smiled. "Sure. You, too." And with that, he was gone.

Jim didn't stick around to see what his former cop and Father Reilly were up to. Duty called. The second unpleasant event of the day was about to begin in half an hour, and Jim wasn't sure which one would be more awful in his memory: Bruce Wayne's "funeral" – or the unveiling of Batman's statue. He feared it would be the latter.

Fittingly, Jim's day seemed to get worse by the minute. He stopped by the precinct on his way to City Hall because he needed a hot drink to shake the chill from Bruce Wayne's funeral – and managed to spill coffee onto his shirt and tie. Grumbling, but relieved that he still had a spare shirt and an extra tie in his trunk, he rushed to the men's room to change, only to hit his shoulder on the way out the door.

When he finally reached the place where the Batman's statue was about to be unveiled, uncomfortable in his slightly wrinkled shirt and arm smarting, everyone was already waiting for Gotham City's police commissioner. No one would have dared to say anything to his face, but he could read it in the attendees' expressions: Many of them had wondered if he would even come.

Nodding at the more familiar faces but not talking to anyone, Jim took his seat in the front row, waiting for the ordeal to be over. Luckily, no one had asked him to speak at the event. He wouldn't have done it anyway. This was the city's way of honoring the hero it had never been able to acknowledge in the past, and while the cop in him understood the sentiment and what the interim mayor was trying to do by erecting this hastily – but artfully – manufactured sculpture, Jim Gordon, Batman's comrade and ally, still felt betrayed by it.

He knew it was illogical and even unfair because he had helped to condemn Batman and create the lie regarding Harvey Dent in the first place. Yet just this once, Jim allowed himself to be a feeling, selfish human being that was grieving for a friend instead of the commissioner who always put the city and his duty first.

Jim's face remained set in stone, carefully blank of all expression, until it was done. The assembled crowd clapped their hands dutifully, and Jim left before anyone could try to talk to him. The last thing he wanted right then was to answer stupid questions about his liaison with Batman or whether the statue resembled the late Dark Knight at all. He fled through a back exit and drove straight home, feeling emotionally drained and almost hollow on the inside.

His apartment was slightly less chaotic and marginally clean these days, but half the windows in every room were still boarded up against the cold. Even with help from outside the city's boundaries, the repair crews and manufacturers hadn't been able to fulfill the high demand for windowpanes and apartment doors, light bulbs and something as simple as mere paint.

Jim supposed he could call himself lucky because he still had a door to shut out his noisy neighbors or unwanted guests – and robbers or criminals with a grudge, of course. He turned the lock, slid the slightly wobbly deadbolt home, and went straight to bed. The city would survive without him on watch for one night.

 _["A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens obviously does not belong to me. I only used the part of the story that was quoted in "The Dark Knight Rises" as well._

 _Some of Jim and Blake's dialogue after the funeral is taken directly from "The Dark Knight Rises" to tie the scene into my story. All credit goes to Jonathan and Christopher Nolan.]_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The day after the techs' discovery that Bruce Wayne had indeed fixed the autopilot prior to his "death," Lucius got a not-quite-panicky call from down below. When he entered the temporary R&D department, said technicians stood pointing at the Bat and whispering to each other. Lucius dismissed the two men and went to investigate.

He approached the vehicle slowly and hardly believed his eyes when he saw a yellow Post-it attached to its windscreen. He tore it off and read the note, which was written in handwriting he knew all too well. Back in the good old days, he'd seen it on business plans and sketches, and as doodles in the margins of dozens of reports. The words were short but to the point: Sorry I lied.

Lucius couldn't help himself. He sat down where he stood and started laughing so hard that tears streaked down his face. After a minute of hysteric giggling, he slowly raised his fist, still clutching the tiny piece of paper, and yelled, "Apology accepted!" Lucius couldn't be sure, but he thought he felt a slight displacement of air and a door falling shut behind him. He craned his neck to see, but there was no one there, of course.

Slightly embarrassed by his outburst and still giddy with excitement, he picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his old-fashioned suit – one of the few the mob hadn't taken or destroyed – and went upstairs and back to work. He took the note with him and hid it in his safe. Just in case he ever started doubting himself again.

Bruce Wayne was alive. Lucius Fox had all the proof he needed.

Question was: Should he tell Alfred and the others?

Lucius lost a lot of sleep over the dilemma, but finally he decided that he would not tell Alfred, Commissioner Gordon and John Blake. Bruce Wayne had had a reason for disappearing, and it wasn't Lucius's place to contradict his plan, whatever it may be.

He had always trusted the young billionaire, however hair-raising his shenanigans had been. Lucius wouldn't betray that trust now, not after everything they had been through. He kept quiet, focusing his energy on reinstating the Wayne family's name and wealth instead. Loyalty demanded it of him. And the money would be put to good use. Alfred and he would see to that.

So when the day came for Lucius to go the office where Bruce Wayne's will would be read, he went with a guilty conscience and a heavy heart. Staying silent in front of a shocked Alfred who was the main beneficiary was the real challenge, so he left the proceedings as soon as he could. He was still furious with himself that he hadn't yet managed to prove the fraud that had cost Bruce his money and his reputation, but he wouldn't give up. It had to be there. He just needed more time.

On his way out the front door, the CEO bumped into a very preoccupied Blake and regarded him curiously.

The former cop simply shrugged. "Don't look at me," he said. "I'm as surprised as you are. I have no idea what they want with me."

Lucius smiled inwardly. Oh, he suddenly had a very good idea what or rather who had brought the younger man here, but he didn't voice his thoughts out loud and replied, "Well then, good luck." Seeing Blake's inquisitive gaze, he added, "Maybe he left you one of those awful statues that adorned the sitting room downstairs." _I would really like to know how he changed his will after his "death", though…_

Chuckling to himself, he sent the bewildered young man on his way and fled. When he was out of earshot of any passersby, he murmured under his breath, "Bruce, what are you up to now, hm?" He didn't get a reply, of course.

Later in the day, John stood in awe when the previously hidden platform rose out of the underground river and carried him into the air. He slowly turned and looked around, trying to detect any more wonders hidden in this cave that had been Batman's lair. The gloom made it hard to see, and the platform stopped. Nothing else happened. He groaned.

"Oh, come on, you didn't just bring me here to find a lookout, did you?" He cursed and took an additional step – and the sole of his boot hit a tiny irregularity in the surface of the platform.

He knelt and held his flare close to the floor. It was hidden very well, making it almost invisible, but there was definitely a rectangle etched into the smooth stone slab. John was still crouching over the indentation, looking for any hidden buttons or levers, when a brittle voice, rough with age and sorrow, rang out behind him.

"I can't let you do it."

John spun around, realizing too late that he wasn't a cop anymore and didn't have a weapon to defend himself. Then he recognized Alfred Pennyworth standing on a ledge a couple of meters away from him, on the other side of a man-made chasm. It separated the platform Blake himself was standing on from the butler's vantage point.

"What?" John stood and squinted into the semi-darkness, trying to make out the other man's expression, but the light of his flare didn't reach far enough.

"I can't let you do it!" the old man replied, more forcefully this time. "I will not watch another fine young man slip into this darkness, this madness Master Wayne created." A slight quiver in his voice betrayed the still raw pain over his charge's death. "Enough is enough. It cost one man his life. It will not take another."

"But…" John tried to cut in but got interrupted immediately.

"There is no but, Detective Blake. Go home. And if you expect to sneak back in later and find anything useful here, you won't. This was Batman's home. Everything here is protected by a minimum of three layers of security. You will never be able to get any of his equipment working again, so you better give up now. I will not help you to throw your life away." And with that harsh statement, he simply turned to leave.

John stared after his retreating back and finally yelled into the darkness, "But he brought me here!" He didn't have to clarify who the "he" was. They both knew all too well that only Batman could have shown Blake the way.

Alfred didn't stop or turn around. "Then you were a fool to follow him."

One heartbeat later, he was gone, and John stood alone in oppressing darkness which had seemed welcoming only minutes before. He resisted the childish urge to throw his flare away in anger and swore heartfelt instead. "Dammit!"

The shadows didn't reply.

John returned to the cave several times after that, but he never got any farther than on the very first day. The platform he'd stepped on then seemed to be pressure sensitive, that's why it had risen – and continued to do so – each time he entered the batcave, but nothing else ever happened. Alfred caught him on the tenth day while he was snooping around the perimeter of the cavern with a powerful flashlight.

Before John could say anything, the old man shook his head. "The answer is still no." And he left as quickly and silently as he'd come.

John never saw him go, and it unnerved him. The old man was more like Batman than he wanted to admit.

* * *

Jim had a sudden sense of déjà vu. But last time the commissioner had gone to bang on Alfred Pennyworth's door – more than six weeks ago – said door had been an actual double-set and probably cost more than a simple cop earned in five years. The notion was ridiculous but probably true.

"Commissioner?" Alfred regarded his nightly visitor suspiciously but finally let him in and led him into the living room of his new apartment he'd rented in one of the outer parts of the city – pretty close to Wayne Manor but inside the city's boundaries.

They settled into the sitting area, each man equipped with a glass of their favorite drink in hand. Silence descended.

Jim was still thinking about how to broach the subject for his visit when Alfred spoke up. "It was my idea, actually," he said, almost smugly, setting down his glass of bourbon on a coaster that matched the color of the mahogany coffee table perfectly.

Jim gaped at him, almost dropping his glass of beer. "How did you know…?" he spluttered in surprise. Recovering, he added, "Never mind. Your idea?"

Alfred nodded, looking unperturbed. "Yes. People needed to be distracted from the truth. No one was allowed to even suspect that there was a connection between Batman and Bruce Wayne. They needed to see him as nothing more than a pretty face with a lot of dollars in his pocket."

He sighed and continued, "Master Wayne wasn't very happy about playing this particular part, but he knew it was necessary. And it obviously worked because no one ever guessed. Well, almost. You remember Coleman Reese, I presume?"

Jim snorted. "How could I forget?" He grew still for a moment, pondering the question. "So that's what that weird look between them was all about. Bruce crashed his Lamborghini and saved Reese's life who finally understood what his employer was really doing: protecting the people of his city, no matter who they were. Once a hero – always a hero, I guess."

"Indeed, Commissioner."

They raised their glasses in tribute to a very special young man.

Relaxing in the older man's presence, Jim couldn't stop himself. He had to ask. "How did he do it?" Not looking at Alfred but sensing the other man's questioning gaze, he added, "Who taught him to become such an incredible fighter? A figure every criminal in the city would fear? To sneak around, clinging to buildings and flying through the air unseen?"

When he did look up, Alfred's expression had become unreadable, carefully controlled. It was obvious the topic hurt more than he had originally let on. Jim cursed himself for his insensitivity. "I'm sorry. It's too soon. I shouldn't have…"

Alfred waved him off with a raised hand. "No, Commissioner, it is quite all right. You deserve to know."

Jim fell silent and waited for the other man to order his thoughts. Finally, Alfred spoke up, his all-too-knowing eyes fixed on Jim.

"Most of what I am about to tell you are stories Master Bruce or Rachel Dawes related to me. Neither of them would ever have lied to me, so I can only ask you to accept them as the truth and try to understand what drove Bruce to leave Gotham for seven years."

The commissioner nodded in silence, grasping the gravity of the moment and the importance of what he was about to hear.

"I am sure you don't know about this, but Master Bruce once plotted to kill the man who murdered his parents."

Jim's glass slipped in his grip, and he set it down heavily. He bit his tongue so as not to ask the obvious question: What happened? Alfred would tell him soon enough, in his own way.

As if reading his thoughts, the old butler smiled sadly and nodded in confirmation. "Oh, yes. He bought a gun – I don't know how or where – and went to the trial to avenge his parents, but someone else killed Mr. Chill before he could get to him." He swallowed. "For that I will eternally be grateful because if he had pulled the trigger that day, you know as well as I do, that he would have been lost to us forever."

Jim didn't trust his voice after this revelation, so he simply waited for Alfred to continue.

"Rachel found out about Bruce's intentions right after the shooting. She told me she slapped him and yelled at him, and then she basically threw him out of her car. That was the last time she saw him before he vanished."

Finally finding his voice, Jim asked, "That never was in any of the police reports. You always said Bruce simply vanished after the trial, that he never came home. When did Rachel tell you about all this?"

Alfred looked at him with deep sorrow and replied, "She told me many years later, when Bruce was already back and fighting for his city. I guess she had not wanted me to worry any more than I already had. Maybe she had feared he had taken his own life with the gun. I don't know. But I do know that Master Bruce did not become a murderer that night or on any after."

Jim drew a deep breath in relief, and Alfred continued, "He ran from his old life because he could not cope with it. His parents' killer was dead, so the only one left alive to shoulder the responsibility for the dreadful night they died was Bruce himself. I always knew he blamed himself because he had asked Mr. and Mrs. Wayne to leave the theater early. I failed in convincing him of the truth, that it was not his fault. You know how stubborn he could be."

Silent understanding passed between them.

"He never told me about all his travels, but I know that he crossed many countries and many continents to become a criminal." Seeing Jim's eyebrows rise, he added, "Not in the usual sense. He lived among the underworld to understand the thugs and thieves, to study how they thought and why they did what they did, but not to become one of them. He wanted to learn everything about them, so that one day he would be able to fight them. But he never reached his goal until he met Henri Ducard, also known as Ra's al Ghul, in Tibet."

"Tibet?" Jim asked, taking a sip from his forgotten drink and making a face because his beer had long gone stale.

"Indeed," Alfred confirmed. "Ducard knew who Bruce was – however he found out – and sprung him from prison."

"Prison?!"

Alfred looked amused. "Master Bruce got caught stealing materials from Wayne Enterprises. I guess he thought ending up in jail was just another way of learning about the lives of the criminal."

"Huh." Jim shook his head. "He sure never did anything the easy way, did he?"

"Never." The old butler smiled fondly at the familiar joke. "Anyway, Ducard gave him a new reason to live, to learn, to conquer his fears and master his body, to become the perfect spy and soldier. Yet there was one thing Ducard could never teach him: to kill. Bruce had learned his lesson, the difference between justice and revenge, long ago."

Jim's sigh was heartfelt. "I guess I know where this is leading," he said, and Alfred nodded in confirmation.

"Ducard eventually tried to force Bruce to murder a man – he refused and a fight erupted. Fire broke out, and the monastery where they lived was destroyed. Master Bruce finally returned home because he had learned everything he needed to know. A few months later, Ducard came to Gotham."

Startled, Jim looked up. "They met again?"

"Oh, indeed. Ducard burnt down Wayne Manor."

The commissioner flinched, remembering the scandalous news reports in the days after a "drunk Bruce Wayne" had managed to throw out his guests and lay fire to his own family's house. Alfred added, "The madman wasn't done, though. I am sure you remember the incident in the Narrows all too well."

Shuddering, Jim raised his glass, only to put it down again at the sight of the washed out yellow liquid that had once been a sparkling beverage. "Of course, I remember. Batman let me drive his black monster of a car." With a wistful note to his voice, he added, "I always wanted one of those." Catching himself, he asked, "What happened to Ducard?"

The old butler calmly looked him in the eye. "He died in the wreckage of the monorail train."

"Ah." Nothing more had to be said, so Jim forcefully switched the topic, indicating his half-filled glass. "I don't mean to be rude, but would you happen to have anything else to drink? I'm afraid this has long passed the state where it could be called potable."

Alfred sent a knowing smile his way and stood up to get the commissioner another drink. "Of course." When he returned with a fresh glass and another bottle, he asked, "Did you know John Blake has taken a position as sports coach and teacher at Father Reilly's new orphanage?"

Jim looked at him in surprise. He hadn't seen Blake in quite a while, assuming the other man was simply busy finding a new purpose in life. He should have guessed that the former cop wouldn't abandon his old mentor and the children, though.

"No, I didn't," he replied, a question in his voice.

Alfred sat down again, leaning back against his comfortable pillows. "Yes. They moved in last week, right after the city council approved it. They had to make sure everything was child-safe and properly outfitted to house three dozen rowdy teenagers." There was no malice in his voice, only a wistful tone betraying his thoughts. He was obviously remembering another child who had grown up in the house the old butler had called home for more than four decades.

They spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence, remembering a troubled boy who had turned into an unhappy young man, trying not to think of what could have been. And what should have been.

* * *

Early on the following morning, Alfred drove out to Wayne Manor to visit "his" family's tiny graveyard and to lay down fresh flowers. The old butler knew that his charge wasn't really resting in the grave that was marked as his, but where else was he supposed to go to grieve and remember?

The old man entered the fenced-in patch of grass mottled with headstones with a feeling of dread, but he shouldn't have worried. Blake or Father Reilly would never allow any of the orphaned boys to disturb the graves. Besides, they might be troubled and sad, yes, but they were good kids, trying very hard to help the priest and the people of Gotham to reclaim their city.

Everything was peaceful and quiet. Alfred stood with his head bowed for a while, thinking – as he had done so many times before – that he should be the one resting in this earth and not young Bruce Wayne's memory. As usual, he stopped these depressing thoughts before they could really take hold in his soul.

Finally, the faithful butler turned away from Master Bruce's grave and went over to solemnly regard Thomas and Martha's headstone. He brushed away some imaginary dirt from the engravings and suddenly noticed two white roses resting at the base of the marker. The blooms were fresh, the stalks cut even more recent than the one of the single flower Alfred had placed on Bruce's patch only a few minutes ago. Whoever had put them there must have left right before Alfred himself arrived.

Startled, he looked up, but there was no one there. Suddenly nervous, Alfred took one last gaze around and started back toward his car, chiding himself for his skittishness. Maybe Blake or Lucius or even the commissioner had placed the flowers there; or some very old friend of the Waynes who had heard of their son's untimely demise had decided to pay his respects. _No use in getting paranoid,_ Alfred firmly told himself. _The days of hunting mobsters are long past, you lead a normal life now._ He slowly brought his old sedan to life and drove toward the city.

Alfred could have bought a better car with the money Master Bruce had left him, of course, because even his diminished heritage was a lot of money for someone who had lived on a butler's salary – a very generous butler's salary – for decades; yet it hadn't felt right to buy himself a fancy car no one else would ever use. And the memory of Bruce's beloved Lamborghini was still too fresh in Alfred's mind.

Even when he had returned home and closed the apartment door behind him, Alfred still felt on edge. He debated whether to pour himself a stiff drink but decided against it. Instead, he put on the old kettle he had rescued from Mrs. Wayne's ancient kitchen after the fire a few years ago, and set about making tea.

The rest of the day passed without any unusual occurrence. Alfred met with Lucius for lunch as they did on most days, but other than that, he simply stayed at home and read several papers from out of town. The _Gotham Times_ had taken up reporting about important world events a few weeks ago, but most of the pages were still filled with pictures of missing people, obituary notices and requests for help or offers of assistance in exchange for rare goods or other services. In short: It was depressing.

Alfred went to bed still feeling restless and not knowing why.

Late that night, after maybe two or three hours of sleep, Alfred jerked awake. He didn't know where the notion had come from, but he got out of bed, dragged down an old suitcase from the closet and starting packing for a few days or even weeks abroad. At six in the morning, he called Lucius and asked his old friend to pick him up and drive him to the airport. The now reinstated CEO of Wayne Enterprises didn't ask any questions about the odd request, he simply confirmed he would be there half an hour later, and hung up. Another quick phone call to the airfield closest to Gotham City made sure that there was indeed a plane going to Florence that day – and that Alfred would be on it. Having money to spare did have its advantages.

Fifteen hours later, nervous, properly jet-lagged but as sure as he would ever be that his former employer was still alive, Alfred sat in a beautiful spot in his favorite café in Florence, drinking cappuccino and observing his surroundings, waiting for a miracle. He still didn't know when he had made the connection, but reading all those newspapers must have had something to do with it. His subconscious had connected the date to the fact that every year he was in Gotham, Bruce Wayne had placed two beautiful white roses on his parents' grave on the anniversary of their deaths – roses like the ones Alfred had found there only one day ago.

So he sat and waited, consuming unhealthy amounts of coffee and the best the Italian restaurant had to offer. On the fifth day, one of the waiters who had been there every day since Alfred arrived approached him a little timidly.

"Scusi, signore!"

"Sì?" Alfred looked at him in surprise, abandoning his paper.

The younger man shifted his weight, arguing with himself, and finally dared to ask in slightly accented English, "Are you waiting for someone?"

Alfred nodded, and the waiter inquired, "Whom?"

They regarded each other for a moment, and when the older man detected no malice but pure kindness in the other man's face, Alfred answered with finality: "My son."

"Ah!" With a nod and a smile, the waiter disappeared and left the old butler to wonder about their short exchange. Two minutes later, the server returned and placed a glass of Alfred's favorite Italian wine in front of him. "On the house," he confirmed, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared before Alfred could think of a reply.

Alfred never met him again, but he made sure to leave a generous tip and precise instructions for its delivery with the head waiter before he went back to his hotel room that night, thinking of the man who had seen more than just an old Englishman on vacation but one who was in need of an act of kindness and encouragement.

He returned the next morning, idly looking around the restaurant, hoping against hope that his dearest wish would come true. When it finally did and he laid eyes on a sight he had never dreamed of seeing again, it sent a violent jolt through him. The old man froze for a moment, not believing his eyes, but when young Master Bruce raised his gaze to meet his, his world started turning again.

Alfred wanted to jump up and scream in joy, run over to where his surrogate son sat, alive and well, but he stopped himself and simply returned the shy smile directed at him with a nod.

Bruce looked different. More relaxed than Alfred had ever seen him since he was a boy. His hair was longer, but maybe that was simply his imagination. The most startling change was in his eyes, though. There were so many emotions there that Alfred didn't know what to make of it. Pride. Gratefulness. Sorrow. Happiness. Love. All the things Master Wayne had never allowed himself to express openly.

Bruce broke the eye-contact first. Realizing this was the goodbye Alfred had always wished for but never thought possible, he took one last glance toward the boy he'd raised – and wasn't that Selina, the light-fingered maid he'd hired a few months ago, sitting opposite Bruce? – paid his bill and left, sadness and overflowing joy battling in his heart. He thought he heard a soft voice behind his back saying "Goodbye, old friend," but he couldn't be sure. He didn't look back.

The last of the Waynes was alive and free. Maybe now Alfred could finally find peace as well, once his mind stopped reeling. He left the restaurant in a daze, without really seeing anything or anyone.

The journey back to Gotham passed in a blur.

Alfred knew he must have called Lucius while packing his suitcase at the hotel because his loyal friend was waiting for him when his plane landed at the airfield. Yet the rest of the way back to the States was simply gone from his memory. His mind was fixated on that last long look and the face he thought he'd never see again.

Lucius immediately sensed his friend's confusion and atypical detachment. Not knowing the reason and not yet daring to ask – Alfred had retreated behind a wall of silence the moment he entered the car – he simply drove him home. An hour later, he followed a dazed looking Alfred to his apartment, took the key from his unresisting hands, and almost shoved his unmoving friend through the open door.

The old butler slightly came to his senses afterwards, puttering around the familiar surroundings, opening windows and letting in air – or rather what passed for a "fresh" breeze in Gotham these days – but he still didn't speak or offer any explanation for his trip and his sudden return.

Lucius, somewhat amused but also worried by Alfred's unusual behavior and continued silence, busied himself with making tea and preparing a snack. He kept up a running commentary of the past few days in Gotham, the weather and other idle news, but Alfred clearly wasn't listening. It was as if he'd had a sudden relapse into the crushing grief that had followed Batman's death.

After half an hour of this, he had enough: Lucius sat down at the kitchen table and curtly announced, "Alfred! Sit!"

"Hm?" Alfred turned around from the window where he'd been busy watering the plants that didn't look like they needed any fussing over, and focused on Lucius with difficulty. "Oh, right." He dried his hands on a towel and sat down at the other end of the table, but he didn't make any move to pick up his mug or try the biscuits Lucius had laid out.

"Alfred?" Lucius tried again, and only got an answering bob of the head in return. "What happened?"

The older man finally looked up, but the usual sparkle in his expressive eyes was gone, and he quickly lowered his empty gaze again. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost, and a sudden suspicion started to form at the back of Lucius's mind. Before he could debate the wisdom of what he was about to say, he blurted out, "You saw him, didn't you?"

Lucius had expected a variety of reactions to his statement, ranging from disbelief to anger – even fury – for keeping this secret from his friend. Instead he got…nothing. No raised eyebrow, no questioning glance, not even a twitch of a finger. Lucius frowned, deeply concerned now. Was the other man in shock?

"Did you hear me?" he tried once more. Again, no reaction.

Nervously, he slid from his chair and carefully knelt down by Alfred's side to look up into his friend's face.

That was when the tears started to fall. One second Alfred was staring at the hands folded in his lap, the next his eyes simply overflowed. He made no sound, just sat and cried in absolute, heart wrenching silence.

Lucius was lost. Not even the hours he had spent sitting next to a stony Alfred on the day after his return to the manor or his friend's open display of grief in the Waynes' tiny graveyard had been this unsettling. Not knowing what to do or how to console the old man, he simply stayed on the floor, waiting for anything other than this raw, unfiltered release of pain.

Eventually, the tears stopped. Lucius got up to fetch a box of tissues and winced when his steps made the old floorboards squeak, interrupting the stillness in the kitchen. He returned to Alfred within seconds and set the box on the table in front of him.

"Come, now," Lucius said, not really noticing his words. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Automatically, Alfred reached for a tissue and blew his nose, still not looking at Lucius. Then he abruptly stood and vanished down the hallway leading further into the apartment.

Lucius gazed after him in worry but relaxed slightly when he heard water running in the bathroom. He teetered nervously for a minute, debating whether to follow his friend or let him be. In the end, he settled for brewing fresh tea and nibbling on a cookie to calm his frayed nerves.

Lucius was contemplating his fourth cookie of the night when Alfred reappeared in the doorway. He looked calmer, more composed – and definitely ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucius cut him off to spare him the embarrassment. "Don't worry about it. Sit down. I made fresh tea. You look like you could use it."

His no-nonsense approach seemed to work. Alfred sat down and picked up a hot mug of tea, cradling it in his hands. Lucius noted their bluish tint with worry, but he guessed it was to be expected. The emotional outburst combined with a stressful week and the repeated jetlag had to have wreaked havoc on his friend's system. Not to mention the after-effects of the hard, seemingly never-ending winter Alfred had endured on the other side of the bay while waiting for any news from Bruce or Batman and his friends.

They sat together in silence for a while until Alfred's skin returned to its normal, healthier color, and he started nibbling on one of the cookies as well.

Lucius wasn't sure whether to mention Alfred's unexpected breakdown when the other man spoke up. "I saw him in Florence."

Startled, Lucius glanced at him but found his friend's eyes clear and – while still filled with sadness and worry – animated and aware.

"He knew where to find me because I had told him about the café before..." He swallowed and continued, "Before...everything between us went wrong."

Lucius didn't know the whole story, but over the past few months he had guessed enough of it from Alfred's rarely offered comments about his time away from Gotham.

Alfred and Bruce were two of the most stubborn people Lucius had ever met and, once set on his path, neither man would ever back down. On principle, of course. Oh, the irony of it all. These two were more alike than they would ever know. How wonderful it was to think of Bruce still being alive!

Alfred was still speaking. "I know I should be glad he came to say goodbye – although we didn't talk – but it is difficult to grasp. I always wanted him to leave this city and his self-appointed task, but I never thought I would not be part of his future. It was…different…when I thought him dead."

He regarded Lucius guiltily. "I should be happy – he was with a friend, Selina Kyle, you remember her? – but…"

Lucius broke in. "But it's hard to let a son go?" he offered, and Alfred finally smiled the ghost of a smile.

"Yes, it is," he said, returning his attention to his biscuit.

They never spoke of this night again. There simply was no need.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Eight months after what Bruce had thought to be his final goodbye to his old friend and mentor, Bruce stood in front of Alfred Pennyworth's apartment door. He had thought about entering through the window but then decided against it. Alfred surely wouldn't appreciate him falling into old habits so quickly after returning to Gotham.

Bruce still wasn't entirely sure that coming back had been such a good idea anyway, but he knew there were some things he had to do before he could make peace with his past.

He raised his hand to knock – and then let it drop down again. He didn't know what to say! What if Alfred never wanted to see him again? That the old butler had come to Florence spoke of the opposite, of course, but for the third time in his life, Bruce was really afraid. After all the heartbreak, the loss of his parents, Rachel's death, the waste of his family's legacy and name, he wouldn't be able to bear another fallout with Alfred.

He could just return to Florence and join Selina who had developed a not quite unexpected interest in the arts and taken up university classes to become a painter, or maybe even a sculptor. Privately, Bruce thought she would become a collector rather sooner than later.

First Selina had argued against Bruce returning to the city that had almost destroyed him. Then she had clouded herself in silence. And finally, when it became obvious that Bruce wouldn't be stopped, she had told him to go, in true Catwoman fashion, lashing out at him and asking him for forgiveness a few minutes later, dragging him down into a desperate embrace.

Selina hadn't promised to wait for him – but she had kept his mother's pearls. And their new name. Bruce took that as the promise it was.

He lifted his hand again and was about to rap his knuckles against the door when it suddenly opened. He froze. Alfred, who had been about to go out, did as well.

They stared, motionless; two men who were once as close as father and son now regarded each other as strangers. And it was true, in a sense. Their last meeting had been two lifetimes ago. Bruce knew it had been his fault alone.

He finally let his hand drop to his side, and the movement seemed to shake Alfred out of his reverie as well. Bruce was dismayed to see the new lines in his mentor's face, the tired eyes, the shaking that had started as a slight tremor in Alfred's left hand – still holding an umbrella – and now grew stronger by the second. The old butler looked as if he'd seen a ghost. He had, for the second time in his life.

Anxious, Bruce stepped forward and grabbed Alfred by the shoulders. The shaking stopped immediately, and the old man took a shuddering breath. "Master Bruce!" he finally exclaimed, dropping the umbrella to the floor and raising his own hands to let them come to rest on Bruce's forearms. "You are real, then."

Bruce couldn't help himself, he barked a short laugh. "Yes, I am. And I'm sorry I startled you, old friend. May I come in?"

The whole situation was bizarre, some part of Bruce's angst-ridden brain noted, but Alfred nodded and stepped aside, always the perfect host who would never turn anyone away.

"Of course." Alfred pushed the door wide open, and Bruce had no choice but to let go of his friend's shoulders and step through into the hallway beyond, stooping and picking up the discarded umbrella when he stepped over it.

Alfred took the proffered utensil and waved him on. "The living room is straight through. Go on. I just need to put away my…things."

Bruce chose not to comment on the uncharacteristic hitch in Alfred's normally precise speech pattern, and continued down the hall.

Familiar smells and sights assaulted him. Alfred's usual mix of herbs filled the windowsill in the homely kitchen he passed on the left. The ancient photograph of Bruce and his parents that had stood on Alfred's bedside table for as long as he could remember adorned the mantel in the living room, slightly scorched from the fire that had claimed Wayne Manor nearly a decade before. What must be a replica of Alfred's favorite armchair dominated the room decorated in comfortable shades of green and brown. Even the rugs in front of the hearth seemed familiar and welcoming to Bruce's searching eyes.

He had been a fool. A heartless courtier of darkness, chasing shadows and evil and therefore hurting a man he now loved even more than his own father, reducing him to someone who tried to relive the past, keeping it alive by surrounding himself with memories he couldn't let go. Bruce had never been this ashamed in his life. What had he done?

A noise made him turn around.

Alfred stood in the doorway, having gotten rid of his jacket and gloves. Without preamble, he burst out, "Why didn't you come to me sooner? Why did you let me bury you?" The hurt showed clearly in his expressive pale gaze. The pain and many tears he'd cried. The awful, lonely, conscience-stricken days and nights. Even their short meeting in Italy hadn't been able to rid him of all the unanswered questions and doubts that had haunted his uneasy sleep ever since.

Bruce swallowed and answered honestly. "I didn't know how, Alfred! I hurt you. I rejected you. But I could never hate you." Bruce's much darker eyes suddenly brimmed with unshed tears, but he refused to let them fall.

Alfred wanted to say something. Bruce cut him off before he lost his nerve to utter what needed to be said. "You were right, you know. I was ready to die. You did what you thought was right, and so did I. I was wrong." He swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat and finally found his voice again. "I'm sorry. I am so very sorry." He glanced away, not used to openly talking about his feelings or apologizing in this manner.

Alfred smiled at this wonderful young man he'd raised and loved like a son ever since he was born. "So am I."

They looked at each other, still slightly insecure but happy to be alive. Bruce couldn't let it go so easily, though. "Can you forgive me?" he asked, suddenly feeling as if he were ten again and had been caught while reaching for the condensed milk on the top shelf.

Alfred's reply wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Can you forgive _me_?" the old butler asked in return.

Bruce sputtered. "Forgive you? There is nothing to forgive!" His reply was a little more forceful than he had intended, but Alfred only smiled.

"See?" the older man said. "We both made mistakes, we both thought what we did was right. I, for one, don't have anything to excuse. You saved so many lives, who would I be to diminish that by asking for you to acknowledge any wrongdoing?"

Bruce shook his head in lieu of a reply. He wasn't up to a philosophical debate right now. He had come here to apologize, but not to be forgiven so easily. And definitely not in order to dig up so many bad memories for his friend. Groping for words, he finally settled for an inadequate, "I guess."

Alfred's grin widened despite the lingering darkness in his gaze. Bruce was relieved to see some of the familiar twinkle make an appearance. How he had missed this father figure in his life without even realizing it.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred couldn't restrain himself.

"Yes, Alfred…?" Bruce tried very hard not to grin at their familiar banter.

"This is the last time you're playing dead...right?"

Bruce was tempted to bait his old butler just a little longer, but he didn't have the heart for it. Not tonight. Instead, he nodded. "Yes, Alfred. I promise."

They both stepped forward simultaneously. And for the first time in years, the two men embraced each other. Finally, they were at peace.

Bruce never wanted to let go again. He, who had refused simple physical contact unless absolutely necessary, strengthened his grip when Alfred seemed prepared to let go. He could feel Alfred's ribs even through the heavy sweater the other man was wearing, and frowned. Things really needed to change around here.

When they had both calmed down enough to talk again, they drew back.

Alfred asked the inevitable question. "So…how does it work? This is the second time you have come back from the dead. The second time I have inherited all your wealth." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he added, "Although it wasn't such a big sum this time." Forestalling Bruce's protest, he continued, "But it was enough. So what do we do to resurrect you once more? We buried you. The commissioner lied – again – to protect your secrets."

Bruce shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know."

Alfred sighed. "Haven't thought this through, have you?" he asked fondly, suddenly back in his role of guardian to a confused and angry boy. "Well, you _are_ Bruce Wayne…"

"Am I?" Bruce interrupted, his eyes suddenly hard and cold.

Alfred sighed and finally sat down in his armchair. "What are you saying?"

Bruce flopped down on the sofa opposite him. "Technically, I'm not. I gave up my family name when I 'died.'" Much softer he added, "I never deserved it anyway."

Alfred sat up straight and glared at him. "That's nonsense, and you know it!"

Bruce stared back, unintimidated. "Is it, Alfred?" Then he dropped his gaze and added, "I never did anything in their name. With their name." Sensing Alfred's objection, he continued, "Nothing that counts as being worthwhile or even honorable, I mean. I only dragged my family's name down into the mud and destroyed everything my parents and their ancestors had worked for. I even lost their house."

He jumped when Alfred's hand slapped down on the leather armrest, but he didn't look up. The older man was getting truly angry now.

"I have told you this before, and I will continue to do so until you believe me: Your parents would be proud of you." His voice softened when he pressed on, "You made a choice once which set you on a path that led through darkness and misery, and I would be lying if I said I was happy about it. _But_ it was the only way for you. I know that now. So do not second-guess your decision now, not after all you – we – have accomplished. You know as well as I do that Gotham would have been annihilated if it weren't for Batman and his friends. The people of this city may not know their savior's true name" – Bruce squirmed uncomfortably at that – "But the few that do understand your actions. And do not fear the Wayne name might be forgotten. It never will be. Wayne Manor has once again become a safe haven for those in need. You gave it to them. So even if they regarded Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy you pretended to be, with distaste, even pity, they know better now because his last action was one of kindness, from the heart." He paused for breath and added, "Do I need to continue?"

Bruce finally raised his gaze but didn't speak. This had to be the longest and most passionate speech Alfred had ever given him. And it had cost him.

Alfred's hands were shaking again, even in the death-grip the older man had on the arm of his plushy chair. His eyes were blazing, though, and he had that look on his face that told Bruce more than words ever could that his friend meant everything he had said. It scared him for no reason he could discern. What had he done to deserve this kind of loyalty, this love? Nothing. And everything.

They had been friends – no, family – for so long that Bruce understood what the other man was saying. Accepting it for the truth was hard nonetheless. He had always done what he thought was necessary. Had sacrificed his own happiness and his old butler's, too, to give the city he had sworn to protect a fighting chance. And he had succeeded. Not without losses, but they had persevered.

Suddenly, finally, Bruce understood something else Alfred had been trying to say without having to speak the actual words. He gazed at him in astonishment and saw the small smile on his mentor's face. The message there was clear: _I am proud of you._

Bruce smiled in return and nodded once. Satisfied, Alfred answered with a dip of his head and then got up. He announced, "I am going to prepare us some supper. I think we will manage even without me going out for additional ingredients tonight." He started towards the door but suddenly stopped and turned back to Bruce. "You are staying, are you not?" he asked.

Bruce was dismayed to detect the uncharacteristic note of pleading in his old friend's voice. The butler was afraid Bruce might vanish again! So he stood as well and followed Alfred to the door, smiling gently and even a little mischievously. "Of course I will. And I'll probably make a mess of your clean kitchen, but I've been trying to learn a little more about cooking lately. I would be honored if you allowed me to help."

Alfred agreed, and Bruce followed him silently into the kitchen where they set out to create the perfect meal for two. Bruce wisely decided not to comment on the fact that a lot of his favorite snacks were hidden on the lowest shelf in the pantry or that Alfred was adding a little extra flair to his setting of the table. Some habits were hard to break indeed.

Bruce was just glad that he had been able to discourage Alfred of the notion that the butler shouldn't eat with his employer – who was basically his son and only family member – years ago. Some traditions were meant to be forgotten.

So when they finally seated themselves at the simple but beautiful kitchen table – and after Alfred had overcome his shock of finding that Bruce had learned to cut up carrots and tomatoes without chopping off his fingers indeed – they ate in companionable, easy silence. Afterwards, Bruce took the dishes to the sink and helped his old friend get rid of the evidence of their impromptu meal.

Eventually, they retired to the living room, Alfred taking his customary place in the armchair, Bruce sitting opposite him on the sofa again. They talked of non essential things, passing the time by just being together. Naturally, the old hurts were still there, but they were healing slowly. In time, the lesson the horrifying events had taught them would make them stronger. Together.

It was long past midnight when they finally turned towards the topic they had both skirted around until now. Batman's legacy.

Bruce took a deep breath. "I asked Blake to take up the mantle, you know. Later on, after I'd seen you in Florence, I realized that you had returned after all and blocked the cave from usage. We need to help him."

Alfred's answer was imminent and firm. "No."

"But Alfred…"

"I said no!" The old man was adamant. "I have met him. He is persistent, I'll give you that, but I will not help him kill himself."

Bruce started to interrupt. Alfred cut him off. "You know as well as I do that being Batman is no life to wish on anyone, least of all your friends. You had no right to ask this of him. Look at him! He is only a child. Not much older than you were when you came home from Princeton for the last time. He cannot pick up where you left off."

Bruce paled at the mentioning of his disastrous homecoming that had ended with him faking his own death for the first time, but his voice was steady when he replied, "Have you seen him recently?"

Alfred sighed and sat back. "What do you mean?"

Bruce leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes never leaving Alfred's steady gaze. "He needs to do something, or his anger will consume him. You know as well as I do that it's not a good idea to bury your feelings, especially your anger, so deep inside of you that you can't feel it anymore. Can't feel anything, really."

"Speaking from experience, are we?" Alfred asked, but there was no real heat in his tone, merely a world of weariness. They both had been through so much that the old butler knew full well what his surrogate son was trying to say. Yet knowing about your charge's previous pain and hearing him say it out loud were two very different things after all.

They regarded each other silently for a moment, neither one really knowing how to continue.

Bruce knew that Alfred was partially right. Being Batman wasn't an easy life. Dangerous, too. It also had its rewards. Not just because you could channel your hurt and energy into something much darker to forget your own past, but because you had the ability to make a difference, to help people. And Bruce simply knew that Blake had what it took. He lacked the physical training Bruce had endured in Tibet and other parts of the world, but he was quick on his feet, not afraid to step up for what he believed was right and – despite his boyish looks and often easy-going manner – would never discard his obligation to make this world a better place. The news about the (now former) cop who had stepped onto the Gotham bridge, trying to lead a group of young orphans to safety before the city blew up, had reached him and Selina even in Italy.

Blake had courage. He would desperately need it if he really wanted to step into Batman's shoes.

"Why did you come back?" Alfred asked, totally out of the blue. "Please don't tell me you have returned to Gotham just to start this madness again!"

"No," Bruce answered calmly. "I did not come here to be Batman again. But if there is one thing I have learned from all these years of darkness and despair is that, while I no longer may be needing Batman, this city needs him. And there will always be someone to step up and continue the legacy for no other reason than that he must. It is my duty to help him."

Alfred stared at him in astonishment. "Waxing poetry now, Master Wayne?" he asked in jest.

Bruce snorted at the comment and shook his head. "Don't fear, old friend, I'll leave the long speeches and artful lectures to you. The way I see it, though, is that Blake won't give up. Batman was his hero, yes, but now that he knows who the man behind the myth really was, he will try to fulfill his...my last wish."

Agitated, he got to his feet and started pacing around the room. "Damn!" he swore. "I thought I had finally gotten rid of the habit of talking about myself in the third person." He risked a glance at his faithful friend and was relieved to see the amusement in Alfred's knowledgeable eyes. "Guess I'm not ready to let go just yet."

Alfred sat back to think.

Bruce knew the intent expression on his friend's face all too well. The old butler had worn it whenever he didn't know how to deal with one of young Bruce's more...unusual exploits. Or when Batman and his friends had been confronted with a seemingly unsolvable case. And he had worn it on the day Alfred Pennyworth left his posting as trusted servant to the last of the Waynes for good.

Not wanting to dwell on that particular memory, Bruce continued his pacing around the room. Eventually, Alfred's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Will you do this, no matter the cost?"

Bruce swiveled to look at him, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. "What do you mean?"

Alfred clarified. "Will you help Detective Blake become Batman even if I say no?"

Shocked, Bruce crossed the room and knelt down in front of his most trusted friend to show how serious he was: "No, I will not." It was a spontaneous promise he swore to keep. He would not lose Alfred over this. Never again. And besides... "I can't do this without you," he implored, suddenly knowing it to be true.

Batman may have had the gadgets and the technical knowledge, but the human element needed for his task often eluded him. It was a sad fact, born out of a life that had never been really happy ever since his parents' deaths. Any new Batman would need this balance to make him safe and sane. There was only so much darkness one could court. It had taken Bruce far too long to realize that.

"Please."

Bruce Wayne had never begged for anything in his life. Even when his parents had perished he didn't ask for forgiveness because he knew he didn't deserve it. He had been afraid of the bats and asked his parents to leave the opera early. Their violent deaths were his fault, no matter how many times Alfred had tried to convince him otherwise.

He hadn't prayed to anyone who would listen to bring back his family, either, because he understood it was a useless request. Besides, he had lost his faith in any kind of deity the moment the killer pulled the trigger. There was no benevolent God looking out for the humans on Earth. There was far too much death and suffering in this world for it to be otherwise.

Bruce's plea proved far more effective than any long-winded argument he might have tried to deliver. Alfred's answer was simple and spoken from the heart: "Yes."

Bruce couldn't believe his ears. "Yes?" _Just like that?_

Alfred smiled grimly and repeated his affirmative. "Yes, Master Bruce, I will help you."

"But why?" He still couldn't believe it had been this simple to sway his friend.

"Why?" The old butler chuckled. "I agreed because I would be a fool to repeat the mistakes of the past. This is important to you, I can see that. Yet you promised not to do it if I said no – and I know you would have kept that vow no matter the consequences to your heart. What more proof would I need to see what kind of man you have become? I always knew you were destined for bigger things. First, I tried to steer you in the right direction. Eventually, I tried to stop you from doing something I deemed unwise. Both attempts failed spectacularly, wouldn't you agree?"

They shared an understanding smile.

"So now I will help you this last time. You need to pass on your legacy. Young Blake needs someone to show him the path or he will become a danger to himself and others. As for me..." Alfred paused for a moment. "I think I need to see you fulfill your destiny. You have now learned to let go of the past and make your own future. By teaching John Blake, you will finally have taken the last step. And then, when you are free, you can go back to your friend Selina. Or decide to make a new life for you somewhere else. Or you can travel to Florence with me and finally enjoy the sights as they should be seen." He winked at his son still kneeling by his feet.

Lost for elaborate words, Bruce grabbed one of Alfred's hands lying on the old man's knee and simply held on. "Thank you."

Their bargain was sealed, for better or for worse.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Miri-chan** , this chapter should be perfect for you. ;) Enjoy!

 **Armand** , thank you for sticking with me! :)

* * *

 **Epilogue**

Finally, John Blake admitted to himself that he wouldn't get anywhere this way. He hadn't given up on the idea of stepping in and picking up Batman's mantle – clearly, the other man had wanted him to do exactly that – but John had no idea how to do it. Mr. Pennyworth had long returned from his mysterious trip to Europe but was being as unhelpful as ever, keeping away from Wayne Manor and the estate altogether, as far as John could tell. He'd even thought about asking Lucius Fox for help but dismissed the idea as fast as it had formed. Even if the scientist could hack into the system, somehow find out where all the secret stuff was hidden and how to access it, the other man would never betray his friends' trust like this.

Sighing, John bent to pick up the flares and the rope he had brought for his current investigation when a looming shadow approaching from behind made him turn around too fast. He lost his footing on the slick surface and fell over the edge of the stone elevation he had perched on – into the pool beyond.

John couldn't stop the undignified yelp that escaped his throat when he hit the ice cold water, and emerged seconds later, swearing loudly. He was furiously wiping his eyes and pushing the hair clinging to his forehead from his face when an unbelievable sound reached John's ears. A few feet away from him stood Bruce Wayne, very much alive and…laughing?

"You bastard!" was the only thing he could hiss before a full body shiver made his teeth rattle.

Bruce merely snorted and threw him a line to reel him in. Then he reached down and gripped John's outstretched hand. He didn't pull him up right away, though, but asked with the most intent expression the former cop had ever seen on anyone's face, "Are you game?"

The younger man didn't even hesitate. "I'm in!" Quite suddenly, he got his first flying lesson when the former billionaire easily hauled him up to where Alfred Pennyworth was patiently waiting with an unfurled blanket.

John knew he had just taken a leap into another world.

* * *

"I hear you've got a new job!" A familiar voice stopped John dead in his tracks.

He sighed and turned back toward the entrance of the MCU and the commissioner walking down the steps in front of it. When had the other man become so sneaky anyway?

John took a deep breath before replying. "Yes, sir. Sports coach for the kids at the Martha and Thomas Wayne Home for Children." He tried to look calm and relaxed but knew that he was failing miserably. _Get a grip, John!_ He chastised himself. _You can't start fidgeting every time you meet him._

Gordon stopped right in front of the younger man and looked him over thoughtfully. "This isn't turning into some kind of obsession, is it? Going back there?"

John shook his head, as sure about his future as he'd ever been. "No, sir. But it's something I have to do." A treacherous voice in his head added, _"And I'm going to be Batman!"_ but John immediately clamped down on the thought.

Gordon regarded him with a scrutinizing gaze, searching for something in John's expression, and finally nodded. "I understand."

John could tell that the commissioner really did – at least the part of John's new occupation he knew about – and it made him glad.

They parted by shaking hands, and John couldn't help but feel that something fundamental just happened, although he couldn't say exactly what. Neither man looked back when they went their separate ways, but John knew they would see each other again very soon.

Arriving at his destination, the former cop entered the grounds of Wayne Manor deep in thought. He cast a glance in the direction of the tombstones as had become his ritual whenever he came home – and wasn't that a very strange thought? Coming "home" to this imposing house with its many secrets and its tragic history? He decided not to dwell on it and went inside to find Father Reilly. They still had a lot of arrangements to make.

The priest was already expecting John, waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase. They walked down one of the side passages of the house to avoid the dozens of teens that were running around, still exploring – almost – every corner of the house and grounds which had been their new home for only a short time.

"Why don't you take Mister Wayne's office in the south wing as your room?" Father Reilly suggested with a sly smile, motioning in the direction they were heading.

John shrugged uncomfortably. "It wouldn't feel right." They turned down yet another hallway, and John started to get the feeling they were walking around in circles. This house was huge!

The other man held up a hand in protest. "Why not? You're going to be a teacher. You're gonna need an office. There's enough room there to store the materials you need, plus there's a small bedroom and a bathroom right around the corner. It's out of the way so the boys won't badger you night and day. I think it's perfect for your new job."

His voice had a funny note to it, but John couldn't quite make out what it meant. Suspicious, he asked, "Are you sure we're talking about my job as sports coach here?"

Father Reilly only laughed and handed him a brass key. "Of course we are," he said and turned to walk back the way they had come. "What else?"

John narrowed his eyes at his old friend's – no, boss's – retreating back and called after him. "Thanks!"

The older man kept walking and simply waved a hand to show he'd heard.

John took a few steps and suddenly found himself in front of the entrance to the south wing Bruce Wayne had lived in not so long ago. Shaking his head and wondering just how much Father Reilly really knew about his latest employee's "hobby", John turned the key in the ancient lock and went inside to take a look at his new domain. His future.

* * *

Jim Gordon needed air! He pushed open the door to the MCU's rooftop and shut it behind him with an audible thud. Tonight his work was really getting to him. He'd nailed one gangster last week, only to learn that all witnesses to the crime had suddenly changed their stories, exonerating the thug who'd murdered a woman in cold blood. Angry, Jim stalked to the railing and looked out over the city, trying to calm his mind and his breathing. He wasn't getting any younger indeed.

He didn't know how many hours he'd spent up here during the past eight months, trying to finish some paperwork without thinking about the broken batlight standing only a few feet away from his makeshift workplace – a rickety chair and a dim desk lamp he'd stolen from his office. Jim knew some of the officers on the force were making fun of him behind his back, but he didn't care. There were memories tied to this special place, good ones and bad.

Sometimes he was tempted to try if the light was working again, but almost immediately the realization hit him that it never would, that there simply was no need for it to cast a shadow into the sky above a city that would never know her savior's sacrifices.

Today was one of those days. Cursing himself for his foolishness, Jim turned around. He faced the broken light of a dark but glorious past and gasped in shock: The batlight was repaired! He stumbled over to where the heavy apparatus stood in the half-light cast by the city below and ran his hand over the new bat symbol centering the floodlight. The metal felt cool to his touch. Familiar. Invigorating!

Jim couldn't help himself, he looked up into the empty sky – and laughed. He gazed around in exhilaration, not knowing whether he should call out or not. In the end, he settled for the sensible thing: He kept silent but let his hands roam over the mended symbol of hope, daring to wish for one last miracle. Yet nothing happened.

Eventually, he dragged himself away and finally got down to finishing tonight's work. He glanced over at the bat signal every few minutes, though, making sure he hadn't been dreaming.

Jim had been holed up on the roof and poring over his latest case load for more than two hours when he finally decided to call it a night. Suddenly, a shadow in the periphery of his vision and a slight wisp of displaced air made him turn around. He'd started to draw his gun when he recognized the silhouette of a man-sized bat standing behind him. Stuffing his sidearm back into his holster, he regarded this new Batman in front of him. And it was a new one, that much was obvious in the particular perk of the bat ears on top of the cowl, the shorter stature, the slightly different and definitely pent-up bearing.

Jim quickly recovered from the shock of having Batman swooping down on him for the first time in years and addressed his nightly visitor as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Batman."

"Commissioner."

Jim snorted and inwardly shook his head. He should have known Blake wouldn't be able to leave well enough alone. Not showing that he'd recognized his former detective under the Batman's mask, he replied, "You sound different than him."

Blake relaxed a fraction and shifted his weight. "Yeah, well, that rasp of his is murder to the vocal cords. So I'm sticking with the new voice modulator in the cowl."

Jim winced in sympathy. "Good choice."

A rough voice rang out from the shadows near the entrance to the roof. "He still needs to practice in case the system ever malfunctions. And he talks too much."

Jim froze in shock, not quite believing his ears. He swiveled around and strained his eyes in the direction from which the words had come. A dark-clad figure stepped into view. His face was mostly concealed by the shadow of a baseball cap, his whole body hidden by black clothing and gloves, but Jim would have recognized the Batman's rasp anywhere in the world. Ignoring Blake's muttered "I hate it when he does that," Jim went to meet his long-lost friend.

They both stopped halfway between the floodlight and the door that led to the rooftop, a few feet apart, silently appraising each other.

Bruce Wayne looked older than Jim remembered. No wonder, he'd last seen the former billionaire in person during the mad days of the Joker after Wayne had smashed his Lamborghini and saved Coleman Reese's life. His eyes still glittered with the keen intelligence Jim had always associated with Batman; his bearing was upright and proud, not stooped or hindered by his old injuries as Jim would have imagined after hearing Alfred's horror-stories of Batman's pain and suffering. Whatever Wayne had been up to during his absence and since his supposed death, it had definitely worked in his favor.

They stood in silence for a whole minute, Batman taking in any change – or lack thereof – in his former partner in crime as well.

Jim spoke first. "So…"

Wayne smiled – an honest, open smile – and stretched out a hand. "Commissioner."

Jim took a step forward and, instead of accepting the offered handshake, stopped right in front of the other man. Wayne tensed but withdrew his hand without punching him, and Jim took that as a good sign – of change, yes, but also of trust and a newfound balance. Before he could stop and talk himself out of it, Jim threw his arms around Wayne in a hug and quickly stepped back again, not daring to stay too close for too long. "It's Jim, you moron. Welcome home."

Wayne looked dumbstruck but recovered quickly from this unusual greeting the old Batman would never have allowed. His lips quirked and an eyebrow rose in wonder. Then he nodded and flashed his enigmatic smile again. "Well then, it's Bruce."

"Bruce," Jim parroted, glad to have his head still attached after his reckless display of affection. Silently chastising himself for his sudden outburst of emotion, Jim cleared his throat and turned around to cast a glance at Blake – who was long gone and could only be seen gliding through the urban canyons of Gotham a few blocks away.

Snorting at the very Batman-like disappearance of his former colleague, Jim turned back to Bruce who simply raised one shoulder as if to say, _Kids…what can you do?_ Then he added out loud, "What do you say we take this somewhere else? I'm sure you have a lot of questions." Bruce continued before Jim could interrupt. "I can't promise I will answer all of them, but I'll do my best. All right?"

Jim could only nod. "Sure. Uh, where do you want to go?"

Bruce shrugged. "Somewhere where there's coffee at two in the morning, I think. Meet you downstairs in five?"

"Okay. How will you…?"

Before Jim could finish his question, Bruce started sprinting across the rooftop, somersaulted over the balustrade and simply threw himself into the abyss beyond. Jim watched in horror and ran after his friend. When he reached the edge of the roof, he saw Bruce dangling from a line clipped to his belt that he had attached to an iron rod protruding from the wall. He swung to safety on a balcony a few stories below.

Shaking his head at the still unpredictable and danger-addicted younger man, Jim went to gather his long-forgotten files and then stepped indoors at a slightly slower pace. "In for a penny…"

 **The End**

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 **Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think? :)**


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